heard in her
delirium the uttering of one man's name again and again, and when she
questioned those about she found that the sufferer had been a little
country wench enticed to town by this man for a plaything, and in a few
weeks cast off to give birth to a child in the almshouse, and then go
down to the depths of vice in the kennel.

"What is the name she says?" her Grace asked the hag nearest to her, and
least maudlin with liquor. "I would be sure I heard it aright."

"'Tis the name of a gentleman, your ladyship may be sure," the beldam
answered; "'tis always the name of a gentleman. And this is one I know
well, for I have heard more than one poor soul mumbling it and raving at
him in her last hours. One there was, and I knew her, a pretty rosy
thing in her country days, not sixteen, and distraught with love for him,
and lay in the street by his door praying him to take her back when he
threw her off, until the watch drove her away. And she was so mad with
love and grief she killed her girl child when 'twas born i' the kennel,
sobbing and crying that it should not live to be like her and bear
others. And she was condemned to death, and swung for it on Tyburn Tree.
And, Lord! how she cried his name as she jolted on her coffin to the
gallows, and when the hangman put the rope round her shuddering little
fair neck. 'Oh, John,' screams she, 'John Oxon, God forgive thee! Nay,
'tis God should be forgiven for letting thee to live and me to die like
this.' Aye, 'twas a bitter sight! She was so little and so young, and
so affrighted. The hangman could scarce hold her. I was i' the midst o'
the crowd and cried to her to strive to stand still, 'twould be the
sooner over. But that she could not. 'Oh, John,' she screams, 'John
Oxon, God forgive thee! Nay, 'tis God should be forgiven for letting
thee to live and me to die like this!'"

Till the last hour of the poor creature who lay before her when she heard
this thing, her Grace of Osmonde saw that she was tended, took her from
her filthy hovel, putting her in a decent house and going to her day by
day, until she received her last breath, holding her hand while the poor
wench lay staring up at her beauteous face and her great deep eyes, whose
lustrousness held such power to sustain, protect, and comfort.

"Be not afraid, poor soul," she said, "be not afraid. I will stay near
thee. Soon all will end in sleep, and if thou wakest, sure there will be
Christ who die