You would preserve your good name then. You would conceal this disgrace
from the world. You shall have your wish--upon one condition."

"What is it, sir?" she asked, rising, but trembling with terror, as she
stood with drooping arms and widely opened eyes.

The old man looked at her for an instant, and then said slowly, "That
this impostor, who so long has falsely borne my name, has wrongfully
squandered my money, and unlawfully eaten my bread, shall pack! That he
abandon for ever the name he has usurped, keep himself from my sight,
and never set foot again in house of mine."

"You would not part me from my only son!" cried the wretched woman.

"Take him with you to his father then."

Richard Devine gently loosed the arms that again clung around his neck,
kissed the pale face, and turned his own--scarcely less pale--towards
the old man.

"I owe you no duty," he said. "You have always hated and reviled me.
When by your violence you drove me from your house, you set spies to
watch me in the life I had chosen. I have nothing in common with you.
I have long felt it. Now when I learn for the first time whose son I
really am, I rejoice to think that I have less to thank you for than
I once believed. I accept the terms you offer. I will go. Nay, mother,
think of your good name."

Sir Richard Devine laughed again. "I am glad to see you are so well
disposed. Listen now. To-night I send for Quaid to alter my will. My
sister's son, Maurice Frere, shall be my heir in your stead. I give
you nothing. You leave this house in an hour. You change your name; you
never by word or deed make claim on me or mine. No matter what strait
or poverty you plead--if even your life should hang upon the issue--the
instant I hear that there exists on earth one who calls himself Richard
Devine, that instant shall your mother's shame become a public scandal.
You know me. I keep my word. I return in an hour, madam; let me find him
gone."

He passed them, upright, as if upborne by passion, strode down the
garden with the vigour that anger lends, and took the road to London.

"Richard!" cried the poor mother. "Forgive me, my son! I have ruined
you."

Richard Devine tossed his black hair from his brow in sudden passion of
love and grief.

"Mother, dear mother, do not weep," he said. "I am not worthy of your
tears. Forgive! It is I--impetuous and ungrateful during all your years
of sorrow--who most need forgiveness. Let me share your burden that