Feeling almost like a thief, he visited every part of the house, but no one was there, and everything was as silent as death. "I can't go to bed and not know where she is," he reflected. "I wonder what she meant when she talked to me so strangely--what she had in her mind! I must know, I must know!" He opened the door, and went out into the night. The sky was moonless, but for a wonder it was resplendent with stars. All the factory fires were low, and the air was no longer smoke-sodden. The wind came from the sea, and he breathed deeply. It seemed as though a great healing power passed over his heart. He went into the little garden upon which he had bestowed such care, and stood still, listening. Not a sound broke the silence. Not a footstep was to be heard. A thought struck him, and he hurried back to the house again. The bonnet and boots which his mother usually wore when she went out were missing, and, as he noticed it, a great fear entered his heart. He looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. "I wonder--I wonder!" he said to himself. A minute later he had closed the door, and was walking in the direction of Howden Clough. It was six o'clock in the morning when he returned; but the month being December, darkness still reigned supreme. Black clouds now covered the sky, and a wailing wind passed round the house. He turned up the electric light, and saw that his mother's boots were placed ready for cleaning. They were covered with mud. Evidently she had had a long tramp. "At any rate, she has returned," he said to himself. He went into all the downstairs rooms, but she was nowhere visible. Then he climbed the stairs again, and stood at his mother's bedroom door. He opened it and went in. The bed had not been used at all, but sitting in an armchair, just under the electric light, was his mother, her face buried in her hands. "Mother," he said, "where have you been?" She took no notice; perhaps she did not hear him. He came up to her side and touched her, upon which she started to her feet. "Mother," he repeated, "where have you been?" And he could not help noticing a kind of unholy triumph in her face. "Why are you not in bed?" he asked. "It is six o'clock in the morning, and your bed has not been slept on." "It's all right, Paul," she said. "It's all right. Never mind; you needn't fear. I've found out something. I've done something!" "Found out something! Done something! What?" "I am not going to tell you," she said, and the look on her face frightened him. It might be that some long-desired thing had been given to her--some great object attained, some unholy desire gratified. For the look on her face was not one that a man loves to see in the face of his mother. "All you hoped for shall come to pass, Paul. Yes, all--all, my boy; don't be afraid. I've done it!"