"Mr. Jackson!"

With a start he turned towards the sound of the subdued voice, and saw
his answer standing at the door.

"Oh, Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me! Speak a word of
encouragement to me, I beseech you."

"You are Polly's mother."

"Yes."

Yes. Polly herself might come to this, one day. As you see what the
rose was in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth of the
woods was in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced, one day, in
a careworn woman like this, with her hair turned grey. Before him were
the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright. This was the woman
he had loved. This was the woman he had lost. Such had been the
constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time spared her under its
withholding, that now, seeing how roughly the inexorable hand had struck
her, his soul was filled with pity and amazement.

He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the
chimney-piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half
averted.

"Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?" he asked.

"Yes."