“Not as I shall, with coolness and decision. You were too much interested. Trust me.” “I do, in all things.” “And you will go to-night.” “Yes, to-night,” was the mournful answer. “Have you taken leave of Madame?” “No; when I called at her room, a few days since, she was gone. Somewhere in the country the people below stairs told me, and might not be back for months.” “It is strange,” said George; “her life, I find, has become utterly degraded. The den which she inhabits is the most poverty-stricken place I ever saw. She seemed greatly annoyed at seeing me, and refused all conversation. The most that I could obtain from her was complaints of your undutifulness and prodigality.” “Don’t talk of her, George. She is my mother, and I can only say with Hamlet, ‘Would it were not so!’ but you will see her, and explain my sudden departure in the best way possible.” “Yes, I will see her. Not only for that, but because I believe she is in some way involved in this mystery regarding the young creatures so fatally connected with us.” “She denies it positively.” “This may be true in all else. But I know that her persecution drove Catharine to the hospital.” “I do not doubt it. But she never knew Louisa. Besides, I do not think she would deliberately wound me—her own son.” “We will not urge the question further,” answered George, suppressing the indignation that arose in his heart against his enemy. “She is a woman, and your mother.” “True, true, so let us talk more directly of ourselves, for we have but an hour.” CHAPTER LXV. THE WASHERWOMAN’S INTRUSION. A light knock came to the door, which softly opened, and a woman appeared bearing a long basket full of clean linen on her arm. “I hope I’m not too late for yer honor,” she said, placing her basket on a chair, and wiping the perspiration from her face. “It’s a long walk from yon, and, do what I would, the time went by quicker ’an I ever seed it.” “But you were to have brought the clothes home yesterday,” said George, annoyed by this intrusion upon the precious moments which remained before his brother’s departure. “Usually you are more punctual, Mrs. Dillon.” “True for ye there,” answered our old friend, Mary Margaret, while a crimson blush reddened her good-natured face. “But do ye see, gintlemen, I’ve been away for a bit, looking after a darlint of a little boy as is precious to me as my own flesh and blood, though he is a gintleman now entirely—for all he was born side by side wid Terry in the hospital—more blame to them as sent his poor mother there!” There was something in this speech that made the brothers start. Their own minds had been so occupied by recollections of the hospital, that the subject, brought upon them so suddenly, and from this unexpected source, seemed like a revelation. “Of what child do you speak, Mrs. Dillon?” inquired George, while Louis stood with his wild eyes fixed upon her.