And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. "What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—"I advised you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense, did I! I advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? I advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? I counselled all this, I suppose. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful.
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