he purse into his hands, and bidding
him God-speed, when he--for whom I fought against my woman's nature, and
took this trying task upon me--broke in upon us, with the face of a
fiend; trampled on the poor, good priest, that deserved veneration and
consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was not
man enough to kill me after all; but called me--ask him what he called
me--see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran away,
like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his rude
tongue, and the heart he had broken. Forgive him? that I never
will,--never,--never."

"Who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "Your own heart.
Come, look at him."

"Not I," said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is naught
to me." And so stole a look at him.

Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were
fixed with horror and remorse.

"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering
voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so--O God, what have I
done?--What shall I do?"

Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him across the priest.

"Why, fall at thy wife's knees and ask her to forgive thee."

Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on
Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken
husband.

Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent,
and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even
in this world of wrangles and jars.

But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted
savory odors; and by and by he said dryly, "I wonder whether that fat
pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"

"O, inhospitable wretch that I am!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of
my own heart."

"And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, my dear, you
are pale, you tremble."

"'T is nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I
will return anon."

She retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently, and
she had to sit down on the stairs.

Ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her
hartshorn.

Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so languid, and also hysterical, that
she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful
Ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and,
to celebrate it, gave her a d