Mrs. Varrel rented a couple of rooms in one of the humblest parts of the town. Even on her bed of sickness, which she was quite aware that she should never leave till she had drawn her last breath, she held herself somewhat proudly aloof from the class of persons around her. "It is my misfortune to be compelled to live among them," she would sometimes remark to Hermia, "but I never allow them to consider that they are in any way my equals." Even with the hand of death upon her, she could not forget that for five years she had been confidential maid to Lady Warlingham. How near to breaking her heart her son's crime and its punishment had gone no one ever knew but herself. At the time she had in a measure set the world at defiance, by her protestations that Dick had been convicted on false evidence; and the world, or that infinitesimal section of it to which she had appealed, compassionating her as a mother, had made believe (while in her sight and hearing) to indorse her view of the case. For some time past, however, no one had heard her mention her son's name. He seemed as one lost to her for ever. Mrs. Varrel always seemed especially glad to see Hermia. "You never preach at me as nearly all my other lady visitors do, and that's what I like you for," she would say. "As for them, they can't leave me an ounce of tea without reminding me that I'm not long for this world--as if I didn't know it already--and exhorting me to seek forgiveness of my sins. By the way some of them talk I might be one of the vilest of sinners. Yet, I suppose, if I were to reply that, so far as I am aware, I have led just as good a life as they, and stand no more in need of forgiveness than they do, they would be highly indignant. I only wish some of them could be made to change places with me for a single week. It would teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget to their dying day." Hermia was in the habit of taking wine and grapes and whatever else Aunt Charlotte thought might tempt the sick woman's appetite, or help to keep up her strength; for during the last few weeks her illness had made great strides, and day by day it became more evident that the end could not much longer be delayed. Sometimes Hermia read to her; sometimes she simply chatted with her, telling her such items of local gossip as she thought would interest her. Sometimes Mrs. Varrel, when she felt a little stronger, would talk to the girl about her early life and things that had happened years before; but never once, till the end was drawing very near, did she make any mention of her son. At length, however, there came a day when, after lying for a little space with closed eyes, she said: "Do you know, Miss Hermy, what the one wish is I have now left in this world?" Hermia smiled and shook her head. "I might guess a dozen times without guessing aright. But tell me what it is you wish, Mrs. Varrel."