ion, Humphrey flung himself on his knees by Mary's side, crying out,--

'Mary! Mary! say one word to comfort me. Say, at least, if it were
possible, you could love me. Why should you be loyal to that faithless
villain? Come to me, Mary.'

The poor, desolate heart, that was pierced with so many wounds, craved,
hungered for the love offered her. How gladly would she have gone to
Humphrey, how thankfully felt the support of his honest and steadfast love.
But Mary Gifford was not a weak woman--swayed hither and thither by the
passing emotion of the moment. Clear before her, even in her sorrow, was
the line of duty. The sacred crown of motherhood was on her brow, and
should she dare to dim its brightness by yielding to the temptation which,
it is not too much to say, Humphrey's words put before her.

She gathered all her strength, and said in a calm voice,--

'You must never speak thus to me again, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I am--God help
me--the wife of Ambrose Gifford, and,' she paused, and then with pathetic
earnestness, '_I am the mother of his son._ Let that suffice.'

Again there was a long silence. From without came the monotonous cawing of
the rooks in the elm trees, the occasional bleating of the lambs in the
pastures seeking their mother's side, and the voices of the shepherd's
children, who had come down to fetch the thin butter-milk which Mistress
Forrester measured out to the precise value of the small coin the
shepherd's wife sent in exchange.

It was a sore struggle, but it was over at last.

When Humphrey Ratcliffe rose from his knees, Mary had the reward which a
good and true woman may ever expect sooner or later to receive from a
noble-hearted man, in a like case.

'You are right, Mary,' he said, 'as you ever are. Forgive me, and in token
thereof let us now proceed to discuss the plans for the rescue of your
boy.'

This was now done with surprising calmness on both sides.

Humphrey decided to start first for Douay, and then, failing to trace any
tidings of the boy, he would proceed to Arnhem, and enlist the sympathies
and help of the good man, George Gifford, to get upon the right track for
the recovery of his nephew's child.

'He is a just man, and will tender the best advice,' Mary said. 'It is true
that a father has a right to his own son, but sure I have a right, and a
right to save him from the hands of Papists. But I have little hope--it is
dead within me--quite dead. My last hope for this world