ines out through
the tangled labyrinth of the story of _The Arcadia_, like golden threads,
the lustre of which time has no power to dim.

Mary Gifford has paid dearly for those five years spent in the world, which
was so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. And
now, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had been
the gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dim
waning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the lines
printed close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the book
fell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle near
and a soft tread of stealthy footsteps.

In another moment the tall black figure Lucy had spoken of stood before
her.

Her heart beat fast, and it needed all her courage not to cry aloud with
fear.

'What is your pleasure, sir?' she said.

The slouching hat was removed, and she saw before her her husband,--

'You thought I was dead; is it not so? I crave your pardon for being alive,
Mary.'

'I heard a rumour that you lived,' she replied; 'but why do you come hither
to torture me?'

'I have an errand, and I shall fulfil it. I am come hither for my son.'

'You come, then, on a bootless errand,' was the answer. 'No power in Heaven
and earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies.'

'We shall see,' was the cool reply. 'Hearken, Mary! I left the country
after that fray with the man you know of. They left me for dead, but I rose
and escaped. The man lay dead--that consoles me--his wife--'

'Do not go over the miserable wickedness of your life. You were covered
with dishonour, and you betrayed me. I would die sooner than give up my
child to you; you shall kill me first--'

'Nay, Mary, do not give vent to your hatred and abhorrence of me. Hearken!
I know I was a sinner, not worse than thousands, but I have sought the
shelter of the Holy Catholic Church, and I am absolved from my sins by
penance and fasting. The unhappy woman for whom I sinned is now a professed
nun in a convent. I shall never look on her face again. I have joined the
priests at Douay; one Dr Allan has the control of the school. It is there
I will take my son, and have him brought up in the Catholic faith.'

'Never!' Mary said. 'My son shall be trained in the Protestant faith, and I
will hold him, by God's grace, safe from your evil designs. Ah, Ambrose, be
not so pitiless; be merciful.'