door, girl. Come nearer, and away from the window; we must
not be overheard."

Harry was constitutionally timid, and it struck her that this poor lady
was not in her right mind. She hesitated. The other seemed to read her
thoughts.

"I am not mad, child," said she, sorrowfully, "though I have trouble
enough to make me so. You are the daughter of the landlord of this inn,
I think?"

"Yes, madam."

"And I am the mother of Richard Yorke."

She was standing in the same position, and had spoken coldly and as
sternly as such a voice as hers could speak, when something in the young
girl's face caused her whole manner to change. With a sudden impulse she
turned toward her, and held out both her arms; and Harry threw herself
into them with a passionate cry, and sobbed as though her heart would
break.

"Hush! hush!" whispered the other, tenderly; "we must not weep now, but
act!"

But the girl still sobbed on, without lifting up her face. Tears had
been strangers to her heated eyes for days, and she had longed in vain
for one sympathizing breast on which to lay her head. "I have been his
ruin," she murmured; "but for me he would never have done wrong. How
you, who are his mother, must hate me!"

"No, Harry, no!" answered the other, putting aside those rich brown
locks, and gazing upon the fair shut face attentively. "I do not wonder
at his loving you; for such beauty as yours many a man would lose his
soul! I did hate you until now. But you love my Richard truly, as I see;
and we two can not afford to be enemies. We must work together for his
good to avert the ruin of which you speak, for it is imminent. He has
sent me to you, for he can not come himself. He is in prison, Harry!"

"In prison! O Heaven, have mercy!"

She sank down on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

"Yes, Harry, think of it. Our Richard, so bright, so dear, within prison
walls! He may pass his life there for what he has done for your sake,
unless you help him."

"Help him? I would die for him!"

"Calm yourself. Sit down. To grieve is selfish where one can do better;
when all is lost it is time enough for that. All _will_ be lost a
fortnight hence, unless we bestir ourselves. Hush! I hear a step in the
passage. Who is that?"

"It is Sol, madam--Solomon Coe."

"The man you are to marry, is it not?"

A stifled groan was the girl's reply.

"I can not speak what I have to say here," said the other, thoughtfully.
"Is there no othe