I'm unhappy."

Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, "My darling, what
does it matter? Whatever does it matter now?"

He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better did he
remember another incident. Hearing high voices from his father's
room, he went upstairs in the hope that the sound of his tread
might stop them. Mrs. Elliot burst open the door, and seeing him,
exclaimed, "My dear! If you please, he's hit me." She tried to
laugh it off, but a few hours later he saw the bruise which the
stick of the invalid had raised upon his mother's hand.

God alone knows how far we are in the grip of our bodies. He
alone can judge how far the cruelty of Mr. Elliot was the outcome
of extenuating circumstances. But Mrs. Elliot could accurately
judge of its extent.

At last he died. Rickie was now fifteen, and got off a whole
week's school for the funeral. His mother was rather strange. She
was much happier, she looked younger, and her mourning was as
unobtrusive as convention permitted. All this he had expected.
But she seemed to be watching him, and to be extremely anxious
for his opinion on any, subject--more especially on his father.
Why? At last he saw that she was trying to establish confidence
between them. But confidence cannot be established in a moment.
They were both shy. The habit of years was upon them, and they
alluded to the death of Mr. Elliot as an irreparable loss.

"Now that your father has gone, things will be very different."