"I can't think," said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, "how it comes about. Here is my boy--good son, just man, tender heart--and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she cares no more for his affection than if he had been a common man; he labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people grow rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame."
"Shame never touched me," said he, in a low tone: but she went on.
"I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I don't believe there is such a thing in the world--now you are come to this; you, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together--my own dear son!"
She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.
"Mother!" said he, holding her gently in his arms, "who has sent me my lot in life, both of good and evil?"
She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just then.

'I can't think,' said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, 'how it comes about. Here is a good, just, tender heart - and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she cares nothing for his affection; he labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people prosper and grow rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame.'
'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went on.
'I don't believe there is such a thing as justice in the world, now you are come to this; my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together - my own dear son!'
She kissed him through her tears.
'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent me my lot in life?'
She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just then.
