Kate herself felt a strong thrill of excitement, as she listened to the regular tramp of the policeman, and the shambling tread of the murderer, coming down the bare boards of the ward. The old woman had closed her eyes, as if to gather strength for the dreadful detective gaze. Dr. Carey laid his hand on the back of Kate’s chair, so close to her it almost touched her shoulder, and one of her brown curls fell upon it. The footsteps came on to the side of the bed, and stopped there. Kate turned her head and took one frightened glance. The murderer was a middle-aged man, with a full, heavy, red face, and light hair just turning grey, not a vicious-looking man on the whole; he might have been a decent, honest, creditable fellow, but for the drinking habits which had brutalised him. He was looking down at the wounded old woman with an air half sorrowful and half ashamed; but a little sullen also, as a boy looks when caught in some fault. The policeman at his right hand was the only sign to mark him out as a criminal; and he seemed as much on the alert as if he expected him to make a second murderous attack on the old woman in her bed. For a minute or two all were silent in the room. Mrs. Duffy’s eyelids were closed, and her lips moved as if in prayer. She looked up at last; and her dim blue eyes, which were full of terror, like those of a child who wakes frightened, changed like those of a child, when it sees that the face bending over it is a familiar face. ‘Why,’ she cried, in a voice at once firm and glad, ‘it’s my boy! It’s my Johnny!’ Her wrinkled features began to work with emotion, and she was about to raise herself up to stretch out her arms to him, but Dr. Carey was quick enough to prevent her. He threw himself on his knees at Kate’s feet, and laid his strong arm gently across the old woman. Every one else stood motionless and thunderstruck. The man himself did not stir hand or foot. ‘That’s my son as went to Australy,’ continued Mrs. Duffy; ‘please let him come and kiss me. Don’t you know your poor old mother again, Johnny?’ ‘Oh, mother! mother!’ exclaimed the man, striking his hard hands together, ‘that’s my mother sir, as I came back to, and was looking for. I hadn’t seen her these thirty years, and she’s nothing like the woman she was. You’ll let me go and kiss her, maybe?’ He had spoken to the policeman next to him, and his official eye was softened; but the magistrates were there, and the indulgence was not his to grant. ‘Is this the person who attempted first to rob and then to murder you?’ asked the magistrate’s clerk. ‘Oh, dear no! it’s my boy,’ said the old woman; ‘he’d never shoot at his mother, bless you! It was quite a different man, not him; a dreadful man. That’s the boy I nursed, and taught him his prayers. He’d never lift up his hand agen me; please let him go.’