“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?” Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet. “Mother!” “I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.” “You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it this which has troubled you so much?” “Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.” “Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I ever went against what I knew would be your wishes. You are right, there can be no happiness in going beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so refined, so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever was would have been interested. I had hoped that this little shame of my life would never reach you or my father.” “He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me, Horace, for you have not answered my question yet. Do you love this girl?” “I did love her dearly—better than my own life!” “And now?” “If you know all, mother, why wound me with that question?” “Because I wish to know—because I must know.” “She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother; beyond that I will say nothing.” “But you did love her?” “I have said so.” “And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?” “We need not speak of what will be. There is misery enough in what is.” “Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then turn your eyes away. I do not like you to look at me so. Now say, if this girl were all you first thought her to be, would you marry her?” “What! against your consent, mother?” “I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace; was the love you felt for this girl such as runs through a man’s whole life; such as leads him to make all sacrifices in its attainment?” “Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I did. But it is all over now.” “But you are very unhappy?” “Very.” “Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the old times never come back to us?” “I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been betrayed into giving itself up entirely, the reaction, if it ever comes, must be slow and painful.” “Horace!” “Mother!” “I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for you. I would do any thing rather than see you looking so dispirited.” “But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not say that. Love me, and bear with me awhile; this cannot last forever.” “With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last forever. My son, it is your mother who has done this. She is the person you ought to hate. Anna Burns is guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and you must believe it.” “Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”