Though her body may be crippled, her poor heart is
the same--alas!--and full of love for you. Edward, you don't mean to
break it off because of our sorrows. You're only trying me, I know,"
said she, as if begging him to assure her that her fears were false.
"But, you see, I'm a foolish woman--a poor foolish woman--and ready to
take fright at a few words." She smiled up in his face; but it was a
forced, doubting smile, and his face still retained its sullen, dogged
aspect.

"Nay, Mrs. Gwynn," said he, "you spoke truth at first. Your own good
sense told you Nest would never be fit to be any man's wife--unless,
indeed, she could catch Mr. Griffiths of Tynwntyrybwlch; he might keep
her a carriage, may be." Edward really did not mean to be unfeeling; but
he was obtuse, and wished to carry off his embarrassment by a kind of
friendly joke, which he had no idea would sting the poor mother as it
did. He was startled at her manner.

"Put it in words like a man. Whatever you mean by my child, say it for
yourself, and don't speak as if my good sense had told me any thing. I
stand here, doubting my own thoughts, cursing my own fears. Don't be a
coward. I ask you whether you and Nest are troth-plight?"

"I am not a coward. Since you ask me, I answer, Nest and I _were_
troth-plight; but we _are_ not. I can not--no one would expect me to wed
a cripple. It's your own doing I've told you now; I had made up my mind,
but I should have waited a bit before telling you."

"Very well," said she, and she turned to go away; but her wrath bust the
flood-gates, and swept away discretion and forethought. She moved and
stood in the gateway. Her lips parted, but no sound came; with an
hysterical motion she threw her arms suddenly up to heaven, as if
bringing down lightning toward the gray old house to which she pointed
as they fell, and then she spoke:

"The widow's child is unfriended. As surely as the Saviour brought the
son of a widow from death to life, for her tears and cries, so surely
will God and His angels watch over my Nest, and avenge her cruel
wrongs." She turned away, weeping, and wringing her hands.

Edward went in-doors; he had no more desire to reckon his stores; he sat
by the fire, looking gloomily at the red ashes. He might have been there
half an hour or more, when some one knocked at the door. He would not
speak. He wanted no one's company. Another knock, sharp and loud. He did
not speak. Then the visitor opened the door; an