Your speaking of the trial brings the whole scene to my mind. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Ireton," cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, "before you take me hence, I implore you—if you would further the ends of justice—search this house. ’ He slid slowly down and collapsed to the stone floor, fainting dead away. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected.
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