It was even so. Adam Andinnian was on Portland Island; and his mother had taken up her residence at Weymouth to be near him. Karl, who knew not the place, or the rules observed, wondered whether a spectator might stroll about on the (so-called) island at will, or ever get a chance glimpse of the gangs at their labour. In the month of October, Captain Andinnian--to call him by this title for a short while longer--went to Weymouth. He found his mother established in a small, mean, ready-furnished house in an obscure part of the town. It was necessary for him to see her on matters connected with the Foxwood estate, of which he had now the management; but she had charged him to come to her in as private a manner as he well could, and not to make himself or his name known at the station or elsewhere, unless under necessity. "She is right," thought Karl; "the name of Andinnian is notorious now." That was true; and he did not suppose she had any other motive for the injunction. "But, my dear mother, why are you _here?_" he asked within five minutes of his entrance, as he looked at the confined walls of the mean abode. "You might at least have been more comfortably and suitably lodged." "What I choose to do, I do," she answered, in the distant tones of former days. "It is not for you to question me." Mrs. Andinnian was altered. Mental suffering had told upon her. The once fresh hues of her complexion had given place to a fixed pallor; the large dark eyes had acquired a fierce and yet restless look. In manner alone was she unaltered, at least to Karl: and as to her pride, it seemed to be more dominant than ever. "I was only thinking of your comfort, mother," he replied to her fierce rejoinder. "This is so different from what you have been accustomed to." "Circumstances are different," she said curtly. "Have you but one servant in the whole house? For everything?" "She is enough for me: she is a faithful woman. I tell you that circumstances are not what they were." "_Some_ are not--unhappily," he answered. "But others, pecuniary ones, have changed the other way. You are rich now." "And do you think I would touch a stiver of the riches that are my dear Adam's?" she retorted, her eyes blazing. "Save what may be necessary to keep up Foxwood, and to--to-- No," she resumed, after the abrupt breaking off, "I hoard them for him." Karl wondered whether trouble had a little touched her brain. Poor Adam could have no further use for riches in this world. Unless, indeed, in years to come, he should obtain what was called a ticket of leave. But Karl fancied that in a case like Adam's--Condemnation commuted--it was never given.