she was hushing him
up like a baby on her bosom. "Hush, Leonard! Leonard, be still, my
child! I have been too sudden with you!--I have done you harm--oh!
I have done you nothing but harm," cried she, in a tone of bitter
self-reproach.

"No, mother," said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing out
with earnestness; "there never was such a mother as you have been to
me, and I won't believe any one who says it. I won't; and I'll knock
them down if they say it again, I will!" He clenched his fist, with a
fierce, defiant look on his face.

"You forget, my child," said Ruth, in the sweetest, saddest tone that
ever was heard, "I said it of myself; I said it because it was true."
Leonard threw his arms tight round her, and hid his face against her
bosom. She felt him pant there like some hunted creature. She had no
soothing comfort to give him. "Oh, that she and he lay dead!"

At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she feared
to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first words.
She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes, murmuring low,
inarticulate, moaning sounds.

"Leonard," said she, "Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up!" But
he only clung the closer, and hid his face the more.

"My boy!" said she, "what can I do or say? If I tell you never to
mind it--that it is nothing--I tell you false. It is a bitter shame
and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame, Leonard,
because of me, your mother; but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or
lowering of you in the eyes of God." She spoke now as if she had
found the clue which might lead him to rest and strength at last.
"Remember that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial
comes--and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be
called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of
yours--remember God's pity and God's justice; and though my sin shall
have made you an outcast in the world--oh, my child, my child!"--(she
felt him kiss her, as if mutely trying to comfort her--it gave her
strength to go on)--"remember, darling of my heart, it is only your
own sin that can make you an outcast from God."

She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up
affrighted. He brought her water--he threw it over her; in his terror
at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her
by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes.

When she partially recovered, he helped her to the bed, o