Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. “My husband knows all. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. ” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. There is no Heaven for your mother. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days.
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