“I do wish, Edward, you would not come into the room like a whirlwind. You know how any sudden noise jars upon my nerves. Why, what is the matter?” she broke off suddenly, his pale, set face catching her eye, little accustomed as she was to pay any attention to Ned's varying moods. “Mother,” he panted out, “people are saying an awful thing about you, a wicked, abominable thing. I know, of course, it is not true, but I want just to hear you say so, so that I can go out and tell people they lie. How dare they say such things!” “Why, what do you mean, Edward?” Mrs. Sankey said, almost frightened at the boy's vehemence. “Why, they say that you are going to marry that horrible man Mulready. It is monstrous, isn't it? I think they ought to be prosecuted and punished for such a wicked thing, and father only a year in his grave.” Mrs. Sankey was frightened at Ned's passion. Ever since the matter had first taken shape in her mind she had felt a certain uneasiness as to what Ned would say of it, and had, since it was decided, been putting off from day to day the telling of the news to him. She had, in his absence, told herself over and over again that it was no business of his, and that a boy had no right to as much as question the actions of his mother; but somehow when he was present she had always shrank from telling him. She now took refuge in her usual defense--tears. “It is shameful,” she said, sobbing, as she held her handkerchief to her eyes, “that a boy should speak in this way to his mother; it is downright wicked.” “But I am not speaking to you, mother; I am speaking of other people--the people who have invented this horrible lie--for it is a lie, mother, isn't it? It is not possible it can be true?” “It is true,” Mrs. Sankey said, gaining courage from her anger; “it is quite true. And you are a wicked and abominable boy to talk in that way to me. Why shouldn't I marry again? Other people marry again, and why shouldn't I? I am sure your poor father would never have wished me to waste my life by remaining single, with nothing to do but to look after you children. And it is shameful of you to speak in that way of Mr. Mulready.” Ned stopped to hear no more. At her first words he had given a low, gasping cry, as one who has received a terrible wound. The blood flew to his head, the room swam round, and he seemed to feel the veins in his temples swell almost to bursting. The subsequent words of his mother fell unheeded on his ears, and turning round he went slowly to the door, groping his way as one half asleep or stupefied by a blow. Mechanically he opened the door and went out into the street; his cap was still on his head, but he neither thought of it one way or the other.