The mother had been extremely handsome; and though the first bloom of youth was now gone, she had still the beauty that might captivate new love--an easier task than to retain the old.

Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled her; she had the features of the younger; and probably any one who had seen her in her own earlier youth would have recognized in that child's gay yet gentle countenance the mirror of the mother when a girl.
Now, however, especially when silent or thoughtful, the expression of her face was rather that of the elder boy;--the cheek, once so rosy was now pale, though clear, with something which time had given, of pride and thought, in the curved lip and the high forehead.

One who could have looked on her in her more lonely hours, might have seen that the pride had known shame, and the thought was the shadow of the passions of fear and sorrow.
But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well-remembered characters--read as one whose heart was in her eyes--joy and triumph alone were visible in that eloquent countenance.

Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again and again with passionate transport.

Then, as her eyes met the dark, inquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung her arms round him, and wept vehemently.
"What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma ?" said the youngest, pushing himself between Philip and his mother.