"And where will mamma sleep? I must sleep near mamma." "Mamma is going away," said Catherine, in a firm voice, in which the despair would only have been felt by the acute ear of sympathy,--"going away for a little time: but this gentleman and lady will be very--very kind to you." "We will do our best, ma'am," said Mrs. Morton. And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the boy's mind--he uttered a loud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed to his mother's breast, and hid his face there, sobbing bitterly. "I am afraid he has been very much spoiled," whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. "I don't think we need stay longer--it will look suspicious. Good morning, ma'am: we shall be ready to-morrow." "Good-bye, Catherine," said Mr. Morton; and he added, as he kissed her, "Be of good heart, I will come up by myself and spend the evening with you." It was the night after this interview. Sidney had gone to his new home; they had been all kind to him--Mr. Morton, the children, Martha the parlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread and jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening: because, like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. His little heart was full, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have been expected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, awed and chilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and he knelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, "Pray God bless dear mamma, and make me a good child," his heart could contain its load no longer, and he sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been used, however, to children, and she soothed and caressed him, and told him of all the nice things he would do, and the nice toys he would have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, he fell asleep. It had been arranged that Catherine should return home that night by a late coach, which left the town at twelve. It was already past eleven. Mrs. Morton had retired to bed; and her husband, who had, according to his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last glass of brandy and water, had just thrown aside the stump, and was winding up his watch, when he heard a low tap at his window. He stood mute and alarmed, for the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at night, and, from the heat of the weather, the iron-cased shutter was not yet closed; the sound was repeated, and he heard a faint voice. He glanced at the poker, and then cautiously moved to the window, and looked forth,--"Who's there?" "It is I--it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must see him--I must, once more!" "My dear sister, the place is shut up--it is impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton should hear you!"