Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all this. She saw that it was no capricious liking that her son had to deal with; and, spite of herself, the sweet face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility, which was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present itself to her memory; and in spite of the intellect which still protested that she had done right, the heart in her bosom rose up against her, and called her a household traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some other harsh names, that she would have been glad to forget. Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead never would be her son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved this bright-faced girl with unusual tenderness; and this conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether, things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and she was a most unhappy woman. One day when Horace came in from business, and was going, as usual, to his own room, Mrs. Savage called to him with a quiver of suffering in her voice, that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn back. “Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said, entering her pretty sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had been a stranger. Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would have come in with a laugh, thrown himself on the stool at her feet, and with both arms folded on her lap, told her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into her eyes. “Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to each other?” “Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.” He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful as usual. “Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at playfulness, “what has come over you? Is it because her inhuman son has been making a wretch of himself? Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.” Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering lips; and flinging herself back in the chair burst into a passion of tears. The startled son threw his arms around her. “Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered like the most commonplace female in the world. “Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!” “Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?” “Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am to blame!” “But there is no blame between us. If all this is about Georgiana Halstead, do understand, once for all, she does not want me, and never cared for me in the least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In fact, she is almost engaged to young Gould.” “I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing goes wrong! I am the most unhappy woman in the world!” “Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?” She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave a hysterical sob, and sat upright in her chair, resolute and proud of look as he had seen her of old.