On a day of grace, she came of God's grace to me.


One night at the end of October Mrs. Hatton was sitting in the
living-room of the Hall. To say "sitting," however, is barely true, for
she was in that irritably anxious mood which both in men and women
usually runs into motion, and Mrs. Hatton was more frequently off her
chair than on it. She lifted the brass tongs and put a few pieces of
coal on the fire; she walked to the window and looked down the long
vista of trees; she arranged chairs and cushions, that did not need
arranging; she sent away the large tortoise-shell cat that was watching
as eagerly as herself for John's return; and finally her restlessness
found a tongue.

"What for are you worrying about the lad, Martha Hatton? He's grown up,
you know, and he isn't worrying about you. I'll warrant that some way
or other he's with that Harlow girl, and where's his poor mother then?
Clean forgotten, of course. Sons and daughters, indeed! They are a
bitter pleasure, they are that. Here's John getting on to thirty years
old, and I never knew it in his shoes to run after a girl before--but
there--I'm down-daunted with the changes that will have to come--yes,
that will have to come--well, well, life is just a hurry-push! One
trouble after another--that's John's horse, I know its gallop, and it is
high time he was here, it is that. Besides, it's dribbling rain, and I
wouldn't wonder if it was teeming down in half an hour--and there's Tom
crying for all he's worth--I may as well let him in--come in, Tom!"--and
Tom walked in with an independent air to the rug and lay down by John's
footstool. Indeed, his attitude was impudent enough to warrant Mrs.
Hatton's threat to "turn him out-of-doors, if he did not carry himself
more like a decent cat and less like a blackguard."