--

"Thou madman! What wadsta say?"

"Mother, dear mother, my mother," he cried, "think of what you would
do; think of me standing, as I must soon stand--very soon--before
God's face with this black crime on my soul. Let me cast it off from
me forever. Do not tempt me to hide it! Rotha, pray with her; pray
that she will not let me stand before God thus miserably burthened,
thus red as scarlet with a foul, foul sin!"

Garth's breath was coming and going like a tempest. It was a terrible
moment. Rotha flung herself on her knees. She had not been used to
pray, but the words gushed from her.

"Dear Father in heaven," she prayed, "soften the hearts of all of us
here in this solemn hour. Let us remember our everlasting souls. Let
us not barter them for the poor comforts of this brief life. Father,
thou readest all hearts. No secret so secret, none so closely hidden
from all men's eyes, but Thou seest it and canst touch it with a
finger of fire. Help us here to reveal our sins to Thee. If we have
sinned deeply, forgive us in Thy heavenly mercy; in Thy infinite
goodness grant us peace. Let Thy angel hover over us even now, even
now, now."

And the angel of the Lord was indeed with them in that little cottage
among the desolate hills.

Rotha rose up and turned to Garth.

"Under the shadow of death," she said, "tell me, I implore you, how
and when you committed the crime for which father and Ralph are
condemned to die to-morrow."

Mrs. Garth had returned once more to her seat. The blacksmith's
strength was failing him. His agitation had nigh exhausted him. Tears
were now in his eyes, and when he spoke in a feeble whisper, a sob was
in his throat.

"He was my father," he said, "God forgive me--Wilson was my
father--and he left us to starve, mother and me; and when he came back
to us here we thought Ralph Ray had brought him to rob us of the
little that we had." "God forgive me, too," said Mrs. Garth, "but
that was wrong."

"Wrong?" inquired the blacksmith.

"Ey, it came out at the trial," muttered his mother.

Garth seemed overcome by a fresh flood of feeling. Rotha lifted a
basin of barley-water to his lips.

"Yes, yes; but how was it done--how?"

"He did not die where they threw him--Ralph--Angus--whoever it was--he
got up some while after and staggered to this house--he said Ray had
thrown him and he was hurt--Ray, that was all. He wanted to come in
and rest, but I flung the door in his face and he fell. The