if you
believe in God and a judgment to come, deceive me no more. The truth, I
say! the truth!"

"So be it," said Griffith, desperately: "when I have told thee what a
villain I am, I can die at thy feet, and then thou wilt forgive me.

"Who is Kate?" was all she replied.

"Kate is my wife."

* * * * *

"I thought her false; who could think any other? appearances were so
strong against her: others thought so beside me. I raised my hand to
kill her; but she never winced. I trampled on him I believed her
paramour: I fled, and soon I lay a-dying in this house for her sake. I
told thee she was dead. Alas! I thought her dead to me. I went back to
our house (it is her house) sore against the grain, to get money for
thee and thine. Then she cleared herself, bright as the sun, and pure as
snow. She was all in black for me; she had put by money, against I
should come to my senses and need it. I told her I owed a debt in
Lancashire, a debt of gratitude as well as money: and so I did. How have
I repaid it? The poor soul forced five hundred pounds on me. I had much
ado to keep her from bringing it hither with her own hands. O, villain!
villain! Then I thought to leave thee, and send thee word I was dead,
and heap money on thee. Money! But how could I? thou wast my
benefactress, my more than wife. All the riches of the world can make no
return to thee. What, what shall I do? Shall I fly with thee and thy
child across the seas? Shall I go back to her? No; the best thing I can
do is to take this good pistol, and let the life out of my dishonorable
carcass, and free two honest women from me by one resolute act."

In his despair he cocked the pistol; and, at a word from Mercy, this
tale had ended.

But the poor woman, pale and trembling, tottered across the room, and
took it out of his hand. "I would not harm thy body, nor thy soul," she
gasped. "Let me draw my breath and think."

She rocked herself to and fro in silence.

Griffith stood trembling like a criminal before his judge.

It was long ere she could speak, for anguish. Yet when she did speak, it
was with a sort of deadly calm.

"Go tell the truth to _her_, as you have done to me; and, if she can
forgive you, all the better for you. I can never forgive you, nor yet
can harm you. My child! my child! Thy father is our ruin. O, begone,
man, or the sight of you will kill us both."

Then he fell at her knees; kissed, and wept over her cold