be
called a path.

'Mother! mother!' Ambrose called; and in another moment a hand was laid on
his shoulder--a strong hand, with a grasp which the child felt it was
hopeless to resist. 'Mother! mother!'

The cry of distress might well have softened the hardest heart; but men
like Ambrose Gifford are not troubled with what is commonly understood by
a heart. He spoke, however, in gentle tones.

'My poor child, your mother is much hurt. We must seek for the aid of a
surgeon. We must get help to carry her home. Come with me, and we will soon
get help.'

'No, no; I will not leave my mother,' Ambrose said, throwing himself on the
ground by her side. 'Why doesn't she speak or move? _Mother!_'

Alas! there was no answer; and a little red stream trickling down from a
wound on the forehead frightened Ambrose still more.

'It is blood!' he cried, with the natural shrinking which children always
show when their own fingers are cut. 'It is blood! Oh, mother!'

But Ambrose was now quietly lifted in a pair of strong arms, and the words
spoken in his ear,--

'We must seek help; we will get a surgeon. Your mother will die if we do
not get help, boy. Hush! If you cry out your mother may hear, and you will
distress her. Hush!'

Poor little Ambrose now subsided into a low wail of agony as he felt
himself borne along.

'Where are you going, sir? Set me down, set me down.'

'We go for help for your mother. Let that suffice.'

Ambrose now made a renewed struggle for freedom. It was the last; he felt
something put over his face, so that he could neither see where he was
going nor utter another cry; he only knew he was being carried off by this
strange man he knew not where, and that he had left his mother lying pale
and still, with that terrible red stream trickling from her forehead, on
the hillock of heather on the moor.

It is said, and perhaps with truth, that the bitterest hate is felt by the
sinner against the sufferer for his sin. This hatred was in Ambrose
Gifford's heart, and was the primary cause of his thus forcibly taking from
the wife whom he had so cruelly betrayed, the child who was so infinitely
precious to her.

Ambrose Gifford had, no doubt, by subtle casuistry persuaded himself that
he was doing good to the boy. He would be educated by the Jesuits, with
whom he had cast in his lot; he would be trained as a son of the Catholic
Church, and by this he hoped to gain favour, and strike off a few years of
purgator