it in hers looks in his face
with great pity, and then at last, as if loath to tell the news she sees
he fears to hear, she says:

"I am Elizabeth Godwin."

What need of more to let us know that Moll had paid her ransom?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

_Don Sanchez again proves himself the most mannerly rascal in the
world._

In silence we led Mrs. Godwin to the seat we had occupied, and seating
ourselves we said not a word for some time. For my own part, the
realisation of our loss threw my spirits into a strange apathy; 'twas as
if some actual blow had stunned my senses. Yet I remember observing the
Moors about their business,--despatching one to Elche for a train of
mules, charging a second boat with merchandise while the first returned,
etc.

"I can feel for you," says Mrs. Godwin at length, addressing Dawson,
"for I also have lost an only child."

"Your daughter Judith, Madam?" says I.

"She died two years ago. Yours still lives," says she, again turning to
Dawson, who sat with a haggard face, rocking himself like one nursing a
great pain. "And while there is life, there's hope, as one says."

"Why, to be sure," says Jack, rousing himself. "This is no more, Kit,
than we bargained for. Tell me, Madam, you who know that country, do you
think a carpenter would be held in esteem there? I'm yet a strong man,
as you see, with some good serviceable years of life before me. D'ye
think they'd take me in exchange for my Moll, who is but a bit of a
girl?"

"She is beautiful, and beauty counts for more than strength and
abilities there, poor man," says she.

"I'll make 'em the offer," says he, "and though they do not agree to
give her freedom, they may yet suffer me to see her time and again, if I
work well."

"'Tis strange," says she. "Your child has told me all your history. Had
I learnt it from other lips, I might have set you down for rogues,
destitute of heart or conscience; yet, with this evidence before me, I
must needs regard you and your dear daughter as more noble than many
whose deeds are writ in gold. 'Tis a lesson to teach me faith in the
goodness of God, who redeems his creatures' follies, with one touch of
love. Be of good cheer, my friend," adds she, laying her thin hand on
his arm. "There _is_ hope. I would not have accepted this ransom--no,
not for all your daughter's tears and entreaties--without good assurance
that I, in my turn, might deliver her."

I asked the old gentlewoman how this might