loose corners of his ample mouth, and shook his old head.
"The past is past, Mr. Pettigrew."
"Your poor dear mother! So good and honest a woman! So simple and kind and forgiving! To think of it! My dear young man!"--he said it manfully--"I'm ashamed."
"The whole world blushed at dawn the other day, Mr. Pettigrew," I said, "and did it very prettily. That's over now. God knows, who is not ashamed of all that came before last Tuesday."
I held out a forgiving hand, naïvely forgetful that in his place I was a thief, and he took it and went his way, shaking his head and repeating he was ashamed, but I think a little comforted.
The door opened and my poor old mother's face, marvellously cleaned, appeared. "Ah, Willie, boy! You. You!"
I ran up the steps to her, for I feared she might fall.
How she clung to me in the passage, the dear woman! . . .
But first she shut the front door. The old habit of respect for my unaccountable temper still swayed her. "Ah deary!" she said, "ah deary! But you were sorely tried," and kept her face close to my shoulder, lest she should offend me by the sight of the tears that welled within her.
She made a sort of gulping noise and was
