A dim light burned in the upper hall. He knocked several times at a door near the head of the staircase, and presently a drowsy voice, sounding as if muffled among pillows, inquired: “Who is that? What do you want?” “It is Norman, mother. Can I see you, please?” “Of course, my son;” and in a few moments the door opened and an elderly lady in a dressing-gown invited him in. CHAPTER V. “I hope you are well, mother?” the young man said, kissing her tenderly, and as the light fell on her face one saw features still handsome in spite of the silver hair that set off the blackness of her large eyes. “Yes, I am well. And you, my dear son?” fondly; then she started in amaze: “Good gracious, Norman! where did you get that child?” He would have laughed at her amazement if he had not been so perturbed by the exciting scene through which he had just passed. As it was, he sighed as he put Sweetheart gently down on a low ottoman. “It is a child I saved from the wreck and brought home with me until I could find her friends, mother.” “Oh, poor little one!” said the lady, tenderly. She sat down and held out her arms. “Come here, you little beauty, and let me kiss you.” Sweetheart ran eagerly to her new friend and held up her rosebud mouth; then she climbed into the lady’s lap with childish confidence. “Sweet’art so tired an’ s’eepy!” she sighed, dropping the curly head on that motherly breast. “Poor little thing! she must be put to bed,” said Mrs. de Vere. She undressed the weary, drowsy child and laid her gently down in her own bed. In a minute she was fast asleep. “God bless you, dear little mother! Oh, what a relief this is to me!” exclaimed the young man. “Was she so very troublesome?” “No; I did not mean that. I--I--But, mother, perhaps you are too tired for me to talk to you to-night?” “No, indeed: I could sit up for hours. But have you seen Camille yet?” “Yes, I have seen her. I will describe to you, mother, the charming interview I have just held with my wife,” he replied, in tones of bitter mockery. She listened while he went over the painful scene, and her eyes reflected the indignation that flashed from his. “How could she be so unjust, so cruel? Oh, I never dreamed that the daughter of my old friend could be so jealous and so suspicious,” she cried, in real distress, for the mother knew that she was in some degree responsible for her son’s misery. She had fostered and encouraged the boy’s passion for the mature siren.