CHAPTER XLIV.
THE MOTHER, THE SON, AND THE ORPHAN
Age is august, and goodness is sublime,
When years have given them a solemn power.
But souls that grow not with advancing time,
Like withered fruit, but mock life's opening flower.
"Mother!"
"My son, don't speak so loud; you quite make me start; and with these delicate nerves you know a shock is quite dreadful—why don't you say mamma, softly, with the pure French pronunciation, and an Italian tone; that's the proper medium, Fred. 'Mother!' I did hope, after travelling so many years, that you would have forgotten the word."
"No, mother; I have not lost the dear old English of that word, and pray God that I never may. Still more do I hope never to lose that respect, that affection, which should make the name of mother a holy thing to every son."
"My dear son, don't you understand that affection uttered in vulgar language loses its—its—yes, its perfume, as I may express it. Now there is something so sweet in the word mamma, so softly fraternal—in short, I quite hear you cry from your little crib with its lace curtains, when you utter it."
"Mother, let us be serious a moment."
"Serious, my child? What on earth do you want to be serious for?"
Here young Farnham took a paper from his pocket, and held it before his mother's face. "Mother, what is this? Did you authorize the purchase of these claims against the helpless old man and woman down yonder?" he said.