oor, and there through the thick cloud of tobacco smoke
Mr. Godwin sees the table in disorder, the white cloth flung back over
the remnants of our repast and stained with a patch of liquor from an
overturned mug, a smutty pipkin set upon the board beside a dish of
tobacco, and a broken pipe--me sitting o' one side the hearth heavy and
drowsy with too much good cheer, and on t'other side his young wife,
sitting on Dawson's knee, with one arm about his neck, and he in his
uncouth seaman's garb, with a pipe in one hand, the other about Moll's
waist, a-kissing her yielded cheek. With a cry of fury, like any wild
beast, he springs forward and clutches at a knife that lies ready to his
hand upon the board, and this cry is answered with a shriek from Moll as
she starts to her feet.

"Who is this drunken villain?" he cries, stretching the knife in his
hand towards Dawson.

And Moll, flinging herself betwixt the knife and Dawson, with fear for
his life, and yet with some dignity in her voice and gesture, answers
swiftly:

"This drunken villain is my father."

CHAPTER XXXI.

_Moll's conscience is quickened by grief and humiliation beyond the
ordinary._

"Stand aside, Moll," cries Dawson, stepping to the fore, and facing Mr.
Godwin. "This is my crime, and I will answer for it with my blood. Here
is my breast" (tearing open his jerkin). "Strike, for I alone have done
you wrong, this child of mine being but an instrument to my purpose."

Mr. Godwin's hand fell by his side, and the knife slipped from his
fingers.

"Speak," says he, thickly, after a moment of horrible silence broken
only by the sound of the knife striking the floor. "If this is your
daughter,--if she has lied to me,--what in God's name is the truth? Who
are you, I ask?"

"John Dawson, a player," answers he, seeing the time is past for lying.

Mr. Godwin makes no response, but turns his eyes upon Moll, who stands
before him with bowed head and clasped hands, wrung to her innermost
fibre with shame, remorse, and awful dread, and for a terrible space I
heard nothing but the deep, painful breathing of this poor, overwrought
man.

"You are my wife," says he, at length. "Follow me," and with that he
turns about and goes from the room. Then Moll, without a look at us,
without a word, her face ghastly pale and drawn with agony, with
faltering steps, obeys, catching at table and chair, as she passes, for
support.

Dawson made a step forward, as if he