The proud woman learned, in that fiery trial, all the strength of her love for her son—knew that it was stronger than pride or ambition, mightier than death.
“Give him back that I may atone!” was her continual prayer, until it seemed as if God must have heard and pitied at last.
The day came when he opened his heavy eyes and knew his mother.
They lightened with a faint gleam of pleasure, and from that moment he began to convalesce.
Memory lay dormant in his mind for days; but it wakened at last, as she knew by the sudden change on his face.
It was twilight, and the windows were open, that warm summer evening, to admit the pleasant air. The western sky was still faintly roseate with hues of the fading sunset, and the sounds of the London streets were softening with the close of the weary day of toil.
Mr. Beresford had gone out for a walk, and the mother and son were alone.
She sat at the head of his low couch, softly stroking back the dark hair from his high, white brow with her jeweled slender white hand.
It made her heart ache to see how thin and wasted he was, and to think that her cruelty had wrought the change.
His hollow dark eyes were turned toward the open window, watching the rosy-purple sky with a far-off look.