'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; you
scorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give you
your choice--commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will find
means to take him whether you will or no. I give you fair warning.'

'You have robbed me of peace and love, and all a woman counts dear. You
betrayed me and deserted me; you slew the husband of the woman you ruined,
and fled the country with her. The sole comfort left me is my boy, and I
will keep him, God helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy by
committing him to a father unworthy the name.'

Could this be gentle Mary Gifford? This woman with flashing eyes and set,
determined face, from which all tenderness seemed to have vanished as she
stood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and who
was the father of her child.

The mother, roused in defence of her boy--from what she considered danger
both to his body and soul--was, indeed, a different woman from the quiet,
dignified matron, who had stood in that very spot with Humphrey Ratcliffe a
day or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution from the
love he offered her, and which she could not accept.

What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if she
had been, as for years everyone believed her to be, a widow! Now disgraced,
and with the death of the man, whom he had killed, on his head, and as one
of the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he had
died.

The next moment the very thought was dismissed, with a prayer for grace to
resist temptation, and pardon even for the thought, and Mary Gifford was
her true self again.

With the fading light of the April evening on her face--pale as death, but
no longer resentful--her heart no longer filled with passionate anger and
shrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stood
before him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly and
deceitful heart admiration, and even awe.

There was silence between them for a short space.

Suddenly, from the open casement above their heads, came the sound of a
child's voice--a low murmur at first, then growing louder--as the dream
passed into reality.

'Mother, mother! Ambrose wants mother!'

Then, without another word, Mary Gifford bowed her head, and, passing into
the kitchen, closed and barred the door; and, hastening to her room, threw
herself on her