still give his last shilling to rescue her,—only that there was the property! Let the heavens fall, justice must be done there. Even a wretch such as Joseph Mason must have that which was clearly his own.
As she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofa, and was now standing before him resting with her hands upon the table, like a prisoner in the dock.
'What!' he said; 'with your own hands?'
'Yes; with my own hands. When he would not do justice to my baby, when he talked of that other being the head of his house, I did it, with my own hands,—during the night.'
'And you wrote the names,—yourself?'
'Yes; I wrote them all.' And then there was again silence in the room; but she still stood, leaning on the table, waiting for him to speak her doom.
He turned away from the spot in which he had confronted her and walked to the window. What was he to do? How was he to help her? And how was he to be rid of her? How was he to save his daughter from further contact with a woman such as this? And how was he to bid his daughter behave to this woman as one woman should behave to another in her misery? Then too he had learned to love her himself,—had yearned to call her his own; and though this in truth was a minor sorrow, it was one which at the moment added bitterness to the others. But there she stood, still waiting her doom, and it was necessary that that doom should be spoken by him.
'If this can really be true———'
'It is true. You do not think that a woman would falsely tell such a tale as that against herself!'
'Then I fear—that this must be over between you and me.'
There was a relief to her, a sort of relief, in those words. The doom as so far spoken was so much a matter of course that it conveyed no penalty. Her story had been told in order that that result might be attained with certainty. There was almost a tone of scorn in her voice as she said, 'Oh yes; all that must be over.'
'And what next would you have me do?' he asked.
'I have nothing to request,' she said. 'If you must tell it to all the world, do so.'
'Tell it; no. It will not be my business to be an informer.'
'But you must tell it. There is Mrs. Orme.'
'Yes: to Edith!'
'And I must leave the house. Oh, where shall I go when he knows it? And where will he go?' Wretched miserable woman, but yet so worthy of pity! What a terrible retribution for that night's work was now coming on her!
He again walked to the window to think how he might answer
