y to-night," she said at length, "and you would never
have seen or heard of me more. My nephew David--Mr. Ritchie--whom I
treated cruelly as a boy, had pity on me. He is a good man, and he was
to have taken me away--I do not attempt to defend myself, my dear, but
I pray that you, who have so much charity, will some day think a little
kindly of one who has sinned deeply, of one who will love and bless you
and yours to her dying day."

She faltered, and Nick would have spoken had not Antoinette herself
stayed him with a gesture.

"I wish--my son to know the little there is on my side. It is not much.
Yet God may not spare him the sorrow that brings pity. I--I loved Harry
Riddle as a girl. My father was ruined, and I was forced into marriage
with John Temple for his possessions. He was selfish, overbearing,
cruel--unfaithful. During the years I lived with him he never once spoke
kindly to me. I, too, grew wicked and selfish and heedless. My head was
turned by admiration. Mr. Temple escaped to England in a man-of-war; he
left me without a line of warning, of farewell. I--I have wandered over
the earth, haunted by remorse, and I knew no moment of peace, of
happiness, until you brought me here and sheltered and loved me. And
even here I have had many sleepless hours. A hundred times I have
summoned my courage to tell you,--I could not. I am justly punished,
Antoinette." She moved a little, timidly, towards the girl, who stood
motionless, dazed by what she heard. She held out a hand, appealingly,
and dropped it. "Good-by, my dear; God will bless you for your kindness
to an unfortunate outcast."

She glanced with a kind of terror in her eyes from the girl to Nick, and
what she meant to say concerning their love I know not, for the flood,
held back so long, burst upon her. She wept as I have never seen a woman
weep. And then, before Nick or I knew what had happened, Antoinette had
taken her swiftly in her arms and was murmuring in her ear:--

"You shall not go. You shall not. You will live with me always."

Presently the sobs ceased, and Mrs. Temple raised her face, slowly,
wonderingly, as if she had not heard aright. And she tried gently to
push the girl away.

"No, Antoinette," she said, "I have done you harm enough."

But the girl clung to her strongly, passionately. "I do not care what
you have done," she cried, "you are good now. I know that you are good
now. I will not cast you out. I will not."

I stood looking a