The old woman looked at him, and waited for him to speak. When he did so he took a step towards her, and said—
“Mother!”
With a great cry she threw herself upon his neck and strained him to her withered bosom, and kissed him. She could not believe her eyes, her senses, but clasped him convulsively, and bade him speak again, and wept, and thanked God, and laughed all in a breath.
Then she remembered herself, and led him tottering to the old Windsor chair, thrust him in it, and quivering with excitement took food and drink from the cupboard and placed before him. He ate hungrily, the old woman watching him, and standing by his side to keep his glass filled with the home-brewed beer. At times he would have spoken, but she motioned him to silence and bade him eat, the tears coursing down her aged cheeks as she looked at his white famished face.
At length he laid down his knife and fork, and drinking off the ale, intimated that he had finished.
“My boy, my boy,” said the old woman in a broken voice, “I thought you had gone down with Tetby’s Pride long years ago.”
He shook his head heavily.
“The captain and crew, and the good ship,” asked his mother. “Where are they?”
“Captain—and—crew,” said the son, in a strange hesitating fashion; “it is a long story—the ale has made me heavy. They are——”
He left off abruptly and closed his eyes.