George’s father always slept well, but the mother stirred at the slightest sound. She heard her boy on the other side of the wall pacing to and fro, and she slipped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went to listen. Presently she knocked gently. “George, my dear, aren’t you well?” “Yes, mother; nothing the matter.” “Let me in.” He let her in, and sat down. The moon shone brightly, and there was no need for any other light. The mother came and sat beside her child. “George, my dear, there is something on you mind? What is it?—tell me.” “Nothing, mother; nothing indeed.” She answered by taking his cold hand in both her own and putting it on her lap. Presently he disengaged himself and went to the window. She sat still for a moment, and followed him. She looked up in his face; the moonlight was full upon it; there was no moisture in his eyes, but his lips quivered. She led him away, and got him to sit down again, taking his hand as before, but speaking no word. Suddenly, without warning, his head was on his mother’s bosom, and he was weeping as if his heart would break. Another first experience to him and to her; the first time he had ever wept since he was a child and cried over a fall or because it was dark. She supported that heavy head with the arm which had carried him before he could walk alone; she kissed him, and her tears flowed with his; but still she was silent. There was no reason why she should make further inquiry; she knew it all. By themselves there they remained till he became a little calmer, and then he begged her to leave him. She wished to stay, but he would not permit it, and she withdrew. When she reached her bedroom her husband was still asleep, and although she feared to wake him, she could no longer contain herself, and falling on her knees with her face in the bedclothes, so that she might not be heard, she cried to her Maker to have mercy on her child. She was not a woman much given to religious exercises, but she prayed that night such a prayer as had not been prayed in Tanner’s Lane since its foundation was laid. For this cause shall a man leave father and mother and cleave to his wife? Ah, yes! he does leave them; but in his heart does he never go back? And if he never does, does his mother ever leave him? In the morning Mrs. Allen was a little pale, and was asked by her husband if she was unwell, but she held her peace. George, too, rose, went about his work, and in the afternoon walked up to the cottage to meet his wife there. She was bright and smiling, and had a thousand things to tell him about what her mamma said, and how mamma hoped that the nasty pipe would be altered and never ought to have been there; and how she was coming after tea to talk to him, and how she herself, Priscilla, had got a plan. “What is it?” said George. “Why, I would put a grating, or something, over the pipe, so that it shouldn’t get stopped up.”