"Don't tell him so, Alice."
"Why not? His face is his father's—and his voice. Oh, Molly! will he come to-morrow?"
"Dick was going to send his letter to-morrow." Her heart sank as she thought of the contents of that letter, which would reach its destination, not as a peace-offering or a message of love at all. The poor mother! Would her son fly to her arms on the wings of affection?
Their discourse was interrupted or diverted—there was but one topic possible that day—by the arrival of Sir Robert Steele.
As a skilful diplomatist, he began with the second of the two mothers where the first ended. That is to say, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and held it, talking in a soft, persuasive voice.
"We are such old—old friends, dear lady," he began—"friends of four and twenty years—that I have taken a great liberty. That is—I am sure you will forgive me—I have consented to act as ambassador on a delicate mission."
"He comes from Lady Woodroffe," thought Molly, "or perhaps from Humphrey."
"Yes," the doctor went on, his voice being like the melodious cooing of the stock-dove—"yes. As a friend of the past, I thought you would forgive this interference. Things have changed, with both of us, since that time, have they not? I was then at the bottom of the profession—I am now at the top. I was then a sixpenny doctor—fill your own bottle with physic, you know; with a red lamp, and a dispensary open from six to ten every evening. Now I am what you know. You are a great lady—rich—a leader. I am sure you sometimes think that 'not more than others we deserve'——"
"I do, doctor, constantly. But the loss of my boy has poisoned everything. Yet now, I hope——"
"Now, I promise and assure you. This day—this evening——"