within the church.
Darkness, utter darkness was about her; but she was prostrated before
the unseen altar. She knew herself once more, and with herself she knew
her power to love.

Her life and all its illusions passed before her; by the truth that
irradiated the illusions, she judged them and herself and saw what must
be the atonement. All that she had believed to be the treasure of her
life had been taken from her; but there was one thing left to her that
she could give:--her truth to her son. When that price was paid, he
would be hers to love; he was no longer hers to live for. He should
found his life on no illusions, as she had founded hers. She must set
him free to turn away from her; but when he turned away it would not be
to leave her in the loneliness and the terror of heart that she had
known; it would be to leave her in the church where she could pray for
him.

She answered her husband after her long silence, looking at her son.

"It is true, Augustine," she said. "You have been mistaken. I did not
leave him for that."

Sir Hugh drew a breath of satisfaction. He glanced round at Augustine.
It was not a venomous glance, but, with its dart of steely intention, it
paid a debt of vengeance. "So,--we needn't say anything more about it,"
he said. "And--dearest--perhaps now you'll tell Augustine that he may go
and leave us together."

Amabel left her husband's side and went to her chair near the table. A
strange calmness breathed from her. She sat with folded hands and
downcast eyes.

"Augustine, come here," she said.

The young man came and stood before her.

"Give me your hand."

He gave it to her. She did not look at him but kept her eyes fixed on
the ground while she clasped it.

"Augustine," she said, "I want you to leave me with my husband. I must
talk with him. He is going away soon. Tomorrow--tomorrow morning early,
I will see you, here. I will have a great deal to say to you, my dear
son."

But Augustine, clutching her hand and trembling, looked down at her so
that she raised her eyes to his.

"I can't go, till you say something, now, Mother;"--his voice shook as
it had shaken on that day of their parting, his face was livid and
convulsed, as then;--"I will go away tonight--I don't know that I can
ever return--unless you tell me that you are not going to take him
back." He gazed down into his mother's eyes.

She did not answer him; she did not speak. But, as he looked into them,
he, too,