lamp-light, as you see her now, she might be a woman of five-and-twenty,
penning a letter to her love. But she is, in fact, writing to her son;
for it is Mrs. Yorke. Writing to him, but not thinking of him, surely,
when she frowns as now, and leans back in her chair with that menacing
and angry look. No; her anger is not directed against _him_, although he
has left her and home, long since, upon an adventure of which she
disapproved.

"You will gain nothing for yourself, Richard," was her warning; "and,
perhaps, may wreck even _my_ scanty fortunes." But, as we know, her son
had taken his own way (as he was wont to do), and had so far prospered.
She was writing a reply to the letter she had received from him from
Crompton that very morning, and the task was one that naturally evoked
some bitter memories.

"So he put him in the ebony chamber, did he?" they ran on. "Ay, that was
_my_ room once. What a pretty chime that serpent-clock had; and how
often have I heard it in the early morning as I lay there--alone! If it
had not been for that hateful woman, I might have been listening to it
now! He seems as mad as ever, by Dick's account, and, I do not doubt, as
brutal and as selfish! And yet it was _he_ that suffered, _he_ that was
wronged, _he_ that was to be pitied! His wife was the adventuress,
forsooth! who deserved all she got. Oh, these men, these men, that treat
us as they please, because they are so sure of sympathy, even from our
fellow-slaves and sisters!"

She bent again to her occupation, but only for a minute. "All this is
labor in vain, Dick," muttered she, laying down her pen; "the luck is
gone both from you and from me. If I were thirty years younger, indeed,
and might have my chance once more, I would tame your father yet. I