’ ‘They? How many are there?’ ‘Oh, peste. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. . . "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. \" Mike retorted churlishly. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected.
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