string he wots of, he lifts the latch
within, and the door opens to his hand. A rush is burning in a cup of
oil upon the table, casting a feeble glimmer round the empty room. He
closes the door when Moll has entered, sets a chair before the hearth,
and rakes the embers together to give her warmth.

"Forgive me, oh, forgive me!" cries Moll, casting herself at his feet as
he turns, and clasping his knees to her stricken heart.

[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME, OH, FORGIVE ME!"]

"Forgive you!" says he, bitterly. "Forgive you for dragging me down to
the level of rogues and thieves, for making me party to this vile
conspiracy of plunder. A conspiracy that, if it bring me not beneath the
lash of Justice, must blast my name and fame for ever. You know not what
you ask. As well might you bid me take you back to finish the night in
drunken riot with those others of our gang."

"Oh, no, not now! not now!" cries Moll, in agony. "Do but say that some
day long hence, you will forgive me. Give me that hope, for I cannot
live without it."

"That hope's my fear!" says he. "I have known men who, by mere contact
with depravity, have so dulled their sense of shame that they could make
light of sins that once appalled them. Who knows but that one day I may
forgive you, chat easily upon this villany, maybe, regret I went no
further in it."

"Oh, God forbid that shall be of my doing!" cries Moll, springing to her
feet. "Broken as I am, I'll not accept forgiveness on such terms. Think
you I'm like those plague-stricken wretches who, of wanton wickedness,
ran from their beds to infect the clean with their foul ill? Not I."

"I spoke in heat," says Mr. Godwin, quickly. "I repent even now what I
said."

"Am I so steeped in infamy," continues she, "that I am past all cure?
Think," adds she, piteously, "I am not eighteen yet. I was but a child a
year ago, with no more judgment of right and wrong than a savage
creature. Until I loved you, I think I scarcely knew the meaning of
conscience. The knowledge came when I yearned to keep no secret from
you. I do remember the first struggle to do right. 'Twas on the little
bridge; and there I balanced awhile, 'twixt cheating you and robbing
myself. And then, for fear you would not marry me, I dared not own the
truth. Oh, had I thought you'd only keep me for your mistress, I'd have
told you I was not your cousin. Little as this is, there's surely hope
in't. Is it more impossible that you, a strong man,