“Not yet,” said I, with a smile. “And never let Père Silas know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money for his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea.”

Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up⁠—astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fully prepared to deny that she had slept at all⁠—her son came gaily to the attack.

“Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence in your slumbers.”

“My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day: it was the slightest doze possible.”