ll this was pleasant pastime indeed compared with
that which poor Hester endured in her mother's bedroom. 'So it has been
done,' said Mrs. Bolton, sitting in a comfortless little chair, which
she was accustomed to use when secluded, with her Bible, from all the
household. She spoke in a voice that might have been fit had a son of
hers been just executed on the gallows.

'Oh, mamma, do not speak of it like that!'

'My darling, my own one; would you have me pretend what I do not feel?'
'Why, yes. Even that would be better than treatment such as this.' That
would have been Hester's reply could she have spoken her mind; but she
could not speak it, and therefore she stood silent. 'I will not pretend.
You and your father have done this thing against my wishes and against
my advice.'

'It is I that have done it, mamma.'

'You would not have persevered had he been firm,--as firm as I have
been. But he has vacillated, turning hither and thither, serving God and
Mammon. And he has allowed himself to be ruled by his own son. I will
never, never speak to Robert Bolton again.'

'Oh mamma, do not say that.'

'I do say it. I swear it. You shall not touch pitch and not be defiled.
If there be pitch on earth he is pitch. If your eye offend you, pluck it
out. He is my step-son, I know; but I will pluck him out like an eye
that has offended. It is he that has robbed me of my child.'

'Am I not still your child?' said Hester, going down on her knees with
her hands in her mother's lap and her eyes turned up to her mother's
face.

'No. You are not mine any longer. You are his. You are that man's wife.
When he bids you do that which is evil in the sight of the Lord, you
must do it. And he will bid you. You are not my child now. As days run
on and sins grow black I cannot warn you now against the wrath to come.
But though you are not my child, though you are this man's wife, I will
pray for you.'

'And for him?'

'I do not know. I cannot say. Who am I that I should venture to pray
specially for a stranger? That His way may be shown to all
sinners;--thus will I pray for him. And it will be shown. Though whether
he will walk in it,--who can say that?' So much was true of John
Caldigate, no doubt, and is true of all; but there was a tone in her
voice which implied that in regard to this special sinner there could be
very little hope indeed.

'Why should you think that he is bad, mamma?'

'We are all bad. There is no doubt about hi