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"No?" says Lauderdale, laughing. "But why, then? There is no other Mrs. Rodney, is there?" "Why should I despise you?" asks she, slowly, opening her eyes. A strange scene presents itself to their expectant gaze. Before them is a large room (if so it can be called), possessed of no flooring but the bare brown earth that Mother Nature has supplied. To their right is a huge fireplace, where, upon the hearthstone, turf lies burning dimly, emitting the strong aromatic perfume that belongs to it. Near it crouches an old woman with her blue-checked apron thrown above her head, who rocks herself to and fro in silent grief, and with every long-drawn breath—that seems to break from her breast like a stormy wave upon a desert shore—brings her old withered palms together with a gesture indicative of despair. "Everything shall be just as you wish it, dearest," says his mother, with unwonted tenderness, and then silence falls upon them all..