Hart, grasping the hand that held hers
convulsively--"my boy! can you bear it?"

"Where is my mother?" asked Lord Chetwynde.

Mrs. Hart struggled up. For a moment she leaned on her elbow. In her
eyes there gleamed the light of undying love--love deep, yearning,
unfathomable--love stronger than life. It was but a faint whisper
that escaped her wan, white lips, but that whisper pierced to the
soul of the listener, and rang through all his being with echoes that
floated down through the years.

And that whisper uttered these words:

"_Oh, my son_! _I--I--am your mother_!"

A low moan burst from Lord Chetwynde. He caught her dying form in his
arms, and a thousand words of love burst from him, as though by that
embrace and by those words of love he would drag her back from her
immortality. And then, at last, in that embrace and in the hearing of
those words of love, there were some few moments of happiness for one
who had sinned and suffered so much; and as she lay back her face was
overspread with an expression of unutterable peace.

When Zillah returned she saw Lord Chetwynde bowed down, with his arms
clasping the form of Mrs. Hart. The smile was still on her face, but
it was only the form of that one who had suffered and loved so much
which now lay there; for she herself had departed from earth forever,
and found a place "where the weary are at rest."

***

Long afterward Zillah learned more about the past history of that
woman whom she had known and loved as Mrs. Hart. It was Obed Chute
who told her this, on one of his frequent visits to Chetwynde Castle.
He himself had heard it from the former Lady Chetwynde, at the time
when she was in New York, and before she joined the Sisters of
Charity.

Neville Pomeroy had known her well as a boy, and they had carried on
an unmeaning flirtation, which might have developed into something
more serious had it not been prevented by her mother, who was on the
look-out for something higher. Lord Chetwynde met her ambitious
views, and though he was poor, yet his title and brilliant prospects
dazzled the ambitious mother. The daughter married him without loving
him, in the expectation of a lofty position. When this was lost by
Lord Chetwynde's resignation of his position she could not forgive
him. She indulged in folly which ended in sin, until she was weak and
wicked enough to desert the man whom she had sworn to love. When it
was too late she had repented. Neville Pomero