of hopeless misery; and her pale hands hung down as if she had not the power to raise them even to dash away the few tears, the one or two drops, that overflowed her fixed and dilated eyes. Norbourne saw how worn and wan they were: he caught them in his; and, pressing them to his lips, exclaimed,—
"My poor mother! I ask not of the past; I know you have suffered—that you suffer far more than I do. To me you have ever been the kindest, the best, the dearest. Let my uncle do his worst, we will leave this together."
"You will marry Constance," exclaimed she, "and save us both from the misery of disclosure?"
Norbourne's brow darkened.
"It were dishonour in me to yield. I will not play the part of an impostor, whom my uncle must despise even while he screens. No; these estates are his right: let him take them; I will not buy them with his daughter's hand."
"Not for your own sake, but for mine,"
