By and by, Uncle Morris’s night-key was heard opening the door-latch again. Jessie started, listened a moment, then dropped her work, and taking Madge’s hand, said:
“Your mother is come!”
“Where is she?” asked the child, looking anxiously toward the door.
“Come with me, I’ll show you,” said Jessie, taking her by the hand.
They went into the hall. Uncle Morris was there, and so was Mrs. Clifton. She was a short, slender, well-formed woman, with large, dark bloodshot eyes. Her face was pale, her cheeks hollow, and her hair uncombed. She was poorly dressed, and yet there was something about her, which told of better things. As soon as she saw Madge, she ran to her, folded her nervously to her bosom, and exclaimed:
“Oh! my child! pity your poor, wretched mother!”
Madge, finding her mother to be sober, grew cheerful. Her mother, after being taken to the bath-room, and furnished with some changes of raiment, was installed in the room with the seamstress, and then, as waters close up, and flow on smoothly again, after a little disturbance, so did affairs at Glen Morris move on once more, in their wonted quiet course.