"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. This man’s name is Montague Hill. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. " "Well, it's mighty fine of you to break your journey in this fashion—for someone you don't know, a passer-by.
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