"offence" had taken. The more he buried himself in recollections of her, and of her curious solitary life in his father's house, so much the more were the mists enveloping her image dispersed. He saw her before him with her hair dressed high, and the plain black gown which in his boyhood had always somewhat embarrassed him, because it so little resembled the dresses of the other ladies of their circle, who were also plainly a little oppressed by her presence. He remembered her private sitting-room, which was not in the least like the other rooms, and where she would often shut herself up for days without seeing anyone. Many a time as a child had he stood outside in the dusk, not knowing if he dared knock. When at last he summoned up courage to enter, he would see his mother crouching in one corner of the long horse-hair sofa, gazing fixedly before her as if she had not heard him. Only after he had stood by her side for some time and whispered "Mother," would she lay her hand on his head and silently stroke his hair; or she would take him on her knee and press him to her with passionate tenderness while she told him many tales of warriors and king's sons, who, under the banner of Christ, had gone forth into the world to fight for truth and the right—he also remembered that his brother and sister seldom visited their mother in her room, and generally fell asleep during her stories. They were younger, and amused themselves better in
