It was already past eleven.
Mrs.Morton had retired to bed; and her husband, who had, according to his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last glass of brandy and water, had just thrown aside the stump, and was winding up his watch, when he heard a low tap at his window.

He stood mute and alarmed, for the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at night, and, from the heat of the weather, the iron-cased shutter was not yet closed; the sound was repeated, and he heard a faint voice.

He glanced at the poker, and then cautiously moved to the window, and looked forth,--"Who's there ?" "It is I--it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy.

I must see him--I must, once more!" "My dear sister, the place is shut up--it is impossible.

God bless me, if Mrs.Morton should hear you!" "I have walked before this window for hours--I have waited till all is hushed in your house, till no one, not even a menial, need see the mother stealing to the bed of her child.