from me, Helen Thurwell,
and listen."

In the silence of the half-darkened chamber she told her story--told it
in the low, humbled tone of saintly penitence, rising sometimes into
passion and at others falling into an agonized whisper. She spoke of her
girlhood, of the falsehood by which she had been cheated into a loveless
marriage, and the utter misery which it had brought. Then she told her
of her sin, committed in a moment of madness after her husband's brutal
treatment, and so soon repented of. Lightly she touched upon her many
years of solitary penance, her whole lifetime dedicated willingly and
earnestly to the expiation of that dark stain, and of the coming to her
quiet home of the awful news of Sir Geoffrey's murder. In her old age
her sin had risen up against her, remorseless and unsatiated. Almost she
had counted herself forgiven. Almost she had dared to hope that she
might die in peace. But sin is everlasting, its punishment eternal.

Here her voice died away in a sudden fit of weakness, as though the
fierce consuming passion of her grief had eaten away all her strength.
But in a moment or two she continued.

"I thought my husband dead, and the sin my son's," she whispered. "They
sent to me to come to his trial, that they might hear from my lips what
they thought evidence against him. I would have died first. Then came a
young man who told me all, and I came with him to England. I have seen
and spoken with my husband. On his table he showed me signed papers. His
confession was ready. 'This night,' he said, 'I take my leave of the
world.' Thank God, he forgave me, and I him. We have stood hand-in-hand
together, and the past between us is no more. He bade me come here, and
I have come. I have seen the woman my son loves, and I am satisfied. Now
I will go."

Her eyes rested for a moment upon Helen, full of an inexpressible
yearning, and there had been a faint, sad wistfulness in her tone. But
when she had finished, she drew her cloak around her, and turned toward
the door.

Helen let her take a few steps, scarcely conscious of her intention.
Then she sprang up, and laid her hand upon Lady Beaumerville's shoulder.

"You are his mother," she said softly. "May I not be your daughter?"

* * * * *

"Helen, Helen, I have strange news for you!"

The room was in semi-darkness, for the fire had burnt low and the
heavily shaded lamp gave out but little light. Side by side on the l