a McDugald was solemnized
April 1st, 18--.

"My boy was born April 15th, 18--.

"Yes, you divorced the guiltless mother two months, and married another
woman two weeks, before the birth of your innocent boy.

"You cruelly and unjustly disowned, disinherited, and even delegalized,
and degraded your son before he was born! So that your son was not born
in wedlock, could not bear your name, or inherit your title! And this
misfortune came upon him by no fault of his, or of his most unhappy
mother's but by the jealousy, vengeance, and fatal rashness of his
father! And now there was no help, either in law or equity, for the
dishonored boy.

"This, Duke of Hereward, is the ruin you have wrought in his life, in
mine, and in yours.

"Do you wonder that when I realized it all I fell into a state of despair
deeper than any I had ever yet known?--a despair that was characterized
by all who saw it as melancholy madness.

"My dear boy, who was at first such a comfort to me, was now only a
beloved sorrow! When I held him to my bosom, I thought of nothing but
his bitter, irreparable wrongs.

"I do not know how long I had continued to live in this despairing and
heathenish condition, when one day, in harvest time, Madelena brought
good Father Antonio to see me. This Father Antonio was the priest of the
chapel of Santa Maria, who had performed the marriage ceremony between
Waldemar de Volaski and myself.

"The father also naturally supposed that all my grief was for the death
of my child's father. He began in a gentle, admonitory way to rebuke me
for inordinate affection and sinful repining, and to remind me of the
comfort and strength to be found in the spirit of religion and the
ordinances of the Church.

"My heart opened to the good old priest as it had never opened to a
living man or even woman before.

"Then and there I told him the whole secret history of my life, including
every detail of my two unhappy marriages, and the fatal divorce preceding
the birth of my son. I concealed nothing from him. I told him all, and
felt infinitely relieved when I had done so.

"The gentle old man dropped tears of pity over me, and sat in silent
sympathy some time before he ventured to give me any words.

"At length he arose and said:

"'Child, I must go home and pray for wisdom before I can venture to
counsel you.'

"'Bless me, then, holy father.'

"He laid his venerable hands upon my bowed head, raised his eyes to
Heaven, and