or woman had said. "Yes, dear,
at once," Mrs. Orme had answered. "He will forgive you, for I know he
is good. He will forgive you, and then the worst of your sorrow will
be over." But towards doing this Lady Mason had made no progress even
in her mind. In the violence of her own resolution she had brought
herself to tell her guilt to Sir Peregrine. That effort had nearly
destroyed her, and now she knew that she could not frame the words
which should declare the truth to Lucius. What; tell him the tale;
whereas her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it from
him? No. She knew that she could not do it. But the idea of doing so
made her tremble at the prospect of meeting him.

"I am very glad you have come home, mother," said Lucius, as he
received her. "Believe me that for the present this will be the best
place for both of us," and then he led her into the house.

"Dear Lucius, it would always be best for me to be with you, if it
were possible."

He did not accuse her of hypocrisy in saying this; but he could not
but think that had she really thought and felt as she now spoke
nothing need have prevented her remaining with him. Had not his house
ever been open to her? Had he not been willing to make her defence
the first object of his life? Had he not longed to prove himself a
good son? But she had gone from him directly that troubles came upon
her, and now she said that she would fain be with him always--if it
were possible! Where had been the impediment? In what way had it been
not possible? He thought of this with bitterness as he followed her
into the house, but he said not a word of it. He had resolved that he
would be a pattern son, and even now he would not rebuke her.

She had lived in this house for some four-and-twenty years, but it
seemed to her in no way like her home. Was it not the property of her
enemy, Joseph Mason? and did she not know that it must go back into
that enemy's hands? How then could it be to her like a home? The room
in which her bed was laid was that very room in which her sin had
been committed. There in the silent hours of the night, while the
old man lay near his death in the adjoining chamber, had she with
infinite care and much slow preparation done that deed, to undo
which, were it possible, she would now give away her existence,--ay,
her very body and soul. And yet for years she had slept in that room,
if not happily at least tranquilly. It was matter of wonder to he