flung herself toward him, but in an instant with a deeper cry she stopped short, pressing her hand to her heart. He had raised his hand, and, with a gesture which had all the spiritual force of a blow, he had cast her off. "Ah, my son, my son!" she cried with a piteous moan, and looking round at us in wild bewilderment.
"I'm not your son!" said the boy in a voice half stifled with passion. "I give you up! You're not my mother! Don't touch me! You've cheated me—you've betrayed me—you've insulted me!" In this mad peal of imprecations, it was still the note of vanity which rang clearest.
I looked at Mr. Cope. He was deadly pale. He had seen the lad's gesture; he was unable to hear his words. He sat down in the nearest chair and eyed him wonderingly. I hurried to his poor wife's relief. She seemed smitten with a sudden tremor, a deadly chill. She clasped her hands, but she could barely find her voice. "Eustace—my boy—my darling—my own—do you know what you say? Listen, listen, Eustace. It's all for you—that you should love me more. I've done my best. I seem to have been hasty, but hasty to do for you—to do for you—" Her strength deserted her; she burst into tears. "He curses me—he denies me!" she cried. "He has killed me!"
"Cry, cry!" Eustace retorted; "cry as I've been
