Presently the bell ceased; solitary silence ensued both to eye and ear. The brightness of the atmosphere was giving place to the shades of approaching evening; the trees were putting on their melancholy. I have always thought--I always shall think--that nothing can be more depressing than the indescribable melancholy which trees in a solitary spot seem to put on after sunset. All people do not feel this; but to those who, like myself, see it, it brings a sensation of loneliness, nay, of _awe_, that is strangely painful. "Ho-ho! So you are up there again, young Charley!" The garden-gate had swung back to admit Tom Heriot. In hastening down from the tree--for he had a way of tormenting me when in it--I somehow lost my balance and fell on to the grass. Tom shrieked out with laughter, and made off again. The fall was nothing--though my ankle ached; but at these untoward moments a little smart causes a great pain. It seemed to me that I was smarting all over, inside and out, mentally and bodily; and I sat down on the bench near the bed of shrubs, and burst into tears. Sweet shrubs were they. Lavender and rosemary, old-man and sweet-briar, marjoram and lemon-thyme, musk and verbena; and others, no doubt. Mamma had had them all planted there. She would sit with me where I was now sitting alone, under the syringa trees, and revel in the perfume. In spring-time those sweet syringa blossoms would surround us; she loved their scent better than any other. Bitterly I cried, thinking of all this, and of her. Again the gate opened, more gently this time, and Mrs. Heriot came in looking round. "Thomas," she called out--and then she saw me. "Charley, dear, has Tom been here? He ran away from me.--Why, my dear little boy, what is the matter?" For she had seen the tears falling. They fell faster than ever at the question. She came up, sat down on the bench, and drew my face lovingly to her. I thought then--I think still--that Mrs. Heriot was one of the kindest, gentlest women that ever breathed. I don't believe she ever in her whole life said a sharp word to anyone. Not liking to tell of my naughtiness--which I still attributed to others--or of the ignominious fall from the pear-tree, I sobbed forth something about mamma. "If she had not gone away and left me alone," I said, "I should never have been unhappy, or--or cried. People were not cross with me when she was here." "My darling, I know how lonely it is for you. Would you like me to come here and be your mamma?" she caressingly whispered. "You could not be that," I dissented. "Mamma's up there." Mrs. Heriot glanced up at the evening sky. "Yes, Charley, she is up there, with God; and she looks down, I feel sure, at you, and at what is being done for you. If I came home here I should try to take care of you as she would have done. And oh, my child, I should love you dearly." "In her place?" I asked, feeling puzzled. "In her place, Charley. _For her._"