ith a strange fear, or
remorse.

"O my poor lads!" she said, "I have loved ye both, yet ye have both
much to forgive. When the priest comes I will tell you before him all
my sin,--all the wrong I have done ye both."

They looked bewildered, but waited silently and patiently for the
coming of Terence and the priest. But the anxious minutes went on, and
no one came. At last Norah half raised herself in bed and hoarsely
whispered, "He does not come, and I am dying! I must confess to _you_,
boys; but if you can't forgive, don't curse your poor broken-hearted
mother when you know all. You, Arthur, _are not my son_, though you
were nursed at my breast, and became like the very pulse of my heart.
_You are the Earl's own son; and you, Philip, are not Lord Alverley;
you are my first-born, my only son._ I changed you in your cradles.
The Countess was very ill for weeks, the Earl never left her to visit
her poor, puny baby. It was sickly; I was sure it would die; I was
tempted to put my own healthier child in its place. I meant a kindness
to my lord and lady, yet I have never known an hour's peace since that
day. Nobody knew my secret, not even my husband, for he was away in
England, with some harvesters, at the time. He never suspected. I
never dared lisp a word of it to the priest. I shut it all close in my
heart, where it stung like a serpent and ate like a poison. It is
killing me. O my poor, dear, injured lads, can you forgive me before I
die?"

There was an agony of supplication in the straining eyes and in the
broken sob.

Philip spoke first, very tenderly: "As for myself, mother, I forgive
you, though you have wronged me by making me a party to a great wrong;
but it was very wicked of you to keep so noble a boy as Arthur so long
out of his rights."

"O no," cried Arthur, "I have really suffered no wrong. God so
wonderfully overruled the evil for good. I have had all the happiness
I could have had as the heir of Ellenwood Castle, and added to it, your
love, my more than brother. So, mother dear, I too forgive you, fully
and freely, and do not despair of God's forgiveness, now that all is
well between us three."

Norah O'Neill lifted her bowed head and stretched out her arms with a
cry, half joy, half sorrow, then fell back on her pillow. A mist
gathered over her eyes, and she spoke no more, but her hands groped
about till they found a hand of each of her boys. These she raised one
after the other