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little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his mother, Well, he would have to be told.”

“Yes, Unquestionably.” Sam saw her thought and her fear. “Still, you can do as you like, Sophy —Mrs. Twycott,” he added. “It is not you who are the child, but he.”

“Ah, you don’t know! Sam, if I could, I would marry yon, someday. But you must wait awhile, and let me think.”

It was enough for him, and bo was blithe at their parting. Not so she. To tell Randolph seemed impossible, She could wait till he had gone up to Oxford, when what she did would affect his life but little. But would he ever tolerate the idea? And if not, could she defy him ?

She had not told him a word when the yearly cricket-match came on at Lord’s between the public schools, though Sam had already gone back to Aldbrickham. Mrs.Twycott felt stronger than usual. She went to the match with Randolph, and was able to leave her chair and walk about occasionally. The bright idea occurred to her that she could casually broach the subject while moving round among the spectators, when the boy’s spirits were high with interest in the game, and he would weigh domestic matters as feathers in the seale beside the day’a victory. They promenaded under the lurid July sun, this pair, so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw the large proportion of boys like her own, in their broad white collars and dwarf hats, and all around the rows of great coaches under which was jumbled the débris of luxurious luncheons—bones, pie-crusts, cham-pagnebottles, glasses, plates, napkins, and the family silver; while on the coaches sat the prond fathers and mothers; but never a poor mother like her. If Ran- dolph had not appertained to these, had not centred