then, as I was passing this very place, I wish I may never speak
truth again, if I did not find" (here he pulled aside the warm rug in
which the infant was wrapped) "this beautiful child."

"With a cord?--"

"A cord was round its neck."

"'Tis mine--the child is mine--'tis mine--my child--I am the mother and
the murderer--I fixed the cord, while the ground shook under me--while
flashes of fire darted before my eyes!--while my heart was bursting with
despair and horror! But I stopped short--I did not draw the noose--I had
a moment of strength, and I ran away. I left him living--he is living
now--escaped from my hands--and I am no longer ashamed, but overcome with
joy that he is mine! I bless you, my dear, my dear, for saving his
life--for giving him to me again--for preserving _my_ life, as well as my
child's."

Here she took her infant, pressed it to her lips and to her bosom; then
bent to the ground, clasped Henry's knees, and wept upon his feet.

He could not for a moment doubt the truth of what she said; her powerful
yet broken accents, her convulsive embraces of the child, even more than
her declaration, convinced him she was its mother.

"Good Heaven!" cried Henry, "and this is my cousin William's child!"

"But your cousin does not know it," said she; "I never told him--he was
not kind enough to embolden me; therefore do not blame _him_ for _my_
sin; he did not know of my wicked designs--he did not encourage me--"

"But he forsook you, Agnes."

"He never said he would not. He always told me he could not marry me."

"Did he tell you so at his first private meeting?"

"No."

"Nor at the second?"

"No; nor yet at the third."

"When was it he told you so?"

"I forget the exact time; but I remember it was on that very evening when
I confessed to him--"

"What?"

"That he had won my heart."

"Why did you confess it?"

"Because he asked me and said it would make him happy if I would say so."

"Cruel! dishonourable!"

"Nay, do not blame him; he cannot help _not_ loving me, no more than I
can help _loving_ him."

Henry rubbed his eyes.

"Bless me, you weep! I always heard that you were brought up in a savage
country; but I suppose it is a mistake; it was your cousin William."

"Will not you apply to him for the support of your child?" asked Henry.

"If I thought he would not be angry."

"Angry! I will write to him on the subject if you will give me leave."

"But do not say it is by