not care much--I had got beyond that." She
hesitated, like one who did not know how to continue her story. Her
teeth became set, her lips quivered, her eyes were hard. "Oh, my boy,
my boy!" she said, "I could not help it, I thought I did what was
right!"

The youth took hold of her hand almost awkwardly. He wanted to try and
comfort her, but knew not how. Perhaps the affectionate action, even
although accompanied by no words, was the best thing he could have done
to ease her aching heart. She laid her head upon his chest as though
she were tired. And then she sobbed convulsively. "There you were
born, my boy."

"They always called me a workhouse brat," he said; "but never mind,
mother, never mind; what then?"

"They never thought I would live, I suppose," she replied. "For weeks
I lay between life and death. I believe I should have died, but
presently I came to know that you were alive, and that you were a
great, strong, handsome boy. But you are not like him, thank God! He
had blue eyes and light hair, but your eyes are black, your hair is
black, and you are like me. They christened you in the workhouse,
unknown to me. The chaplain gave you a name. If I had had the
choosing of it, I should have called you Ishmael or Esau, but they
called you Paul. They wanted me to tell them my surname, but I would
not--I could not--so they called you Stepaside, the name of the little
hamlet where I fell down, as I thought, to die."

"Well, I know everything after that," he replied.

"Very nearly," was her answer. "You were brought up in the workhouse,
while I, as soon as I was strong enough, had to go away into service.
On the whole, I suppose, they did as well as one could expect for you.
They gave you good schooling, and taught you a trade, and now you are
beginning to earn your own living."

"Yes, mother," he replied. "I have got a job as a blacksmith in the
Pencarrow Mines. Soon I shall be getting a pound a week, and later on
you must come and live with me."

She shook her head. "No, Paul. While I am not with you, people will
not insult you. Now that you are away from the place where you were
born and reared, no one knows your history. No one knows that you were
born in a workhouse and that your mother does not know where your
father is."

"But you were married, mother?"

"Yes," she cried eagerly, "and that is why I have told you everything
to-day. When you were seventeen, I said to myself, 'Di