When we emerged the great hall was full of the bustle and stir of supper, but of this last I remember only a little. For my mind was busy with other thoughts—with Wild Plum, my mother, Constance, the forlorn highwayman, the weazen-faced lawyer. This so fully that I scarce noticed the eager throng that laughed and chatted by my side. When supper was over, Uncle Job went forward to smoke, and I being alone, set out to explore the great palace, so calm and steadfast, yet pulsating as with the breath of life. This last in greater semblance of reality because of the far-off sound of the exhaust, so like a man breathing heavily in his sleep. Curious and loitering by the way, I after a while approached a part of the saloon set off by a great screen. This division I for a time respected, but presently reaching the barrier, and being curious, passed beyond. A group of ladies occupied the space thus set apart, and seeing this, I stopped, and would have turned about. No sooner, however, did I come into view than one of them of gentle presence, detached herself from those about her and came toward me. Reaching the spot where I stood, to my great amazement, she clapped down on me as my mother was wont to do. Folding me in close embrace against her bosom, she kissed me as if I were her son, saying with tender emotion: "My sweet child! how glad I am to see you again, and to know you got safely off from that little dragon of a lawyer. I have not thought of anything else since I returned to the boat, and oh, the pity of it and the pathos of the trial! I could not stay to see the end, but still I felt that no one, and least of all that kind-faced judge, could resist the adorable man who pleaded for you as for his son." Thus she went on, and giving me no chance to say a word, led me to a sofa, and drawing me to a seat beside her, sat down, her arm about my body. "Come now, my dear, tell me all about yourself and your Uncle Job, and that acrid old Aunt Jane, for I know she is both old and sour." "My aunt’s cold, madam, but she’s more like ice than vinegar," I answered, not knowing what to say. "Because of that you do not love her?" "How can I, for she doesn’t love me as my mother did." "No one, my sweet child, ever will, save one, if you are lucky. But where do you come from?" the lady went on, as if to make me forget my unhappy state. "From Little Sandy, madam." "How quaint! And who is Uncle Job? What a droll name for so sprightly a gentleman." "He is my mother’s brother, and is to be my guardian, I hope." "I hope so too, for I am sure he will be more indulgent than the other; and children do so much need indulgence," she went on, looking over at the little group she had just left. "Where are you going? How I wish you might live near us! I have children of my own, but I am sure I could love you too"; and with that she bent over and kissed me again, as my mother might.