ly on her while feeding
and caressing the infant, they instantly concluded it was her _own_;
seized it, and, in spite of her entreaties, carried it down to their
father.

That account which Henry had given Rebecca "of his having found the
child," and which her own sincerity, joined to the faith she had in his
word, made her receive as truth, she now felt would be heard by the
present auditors with contempt, even with indignation, as a falsehood.
Her affright is easier conceived than described.

Accused, and forced by her sisters along with the child before the
curate, his attention to their representation, his crimson face, knit
brow, and thundering voice, struck with terror her very soul: innocence
is not always a protection against fear--sometimes less bold than guilt.

In her father and sisters she saw, she knew the suspicions, partial,
cruel, boisterous natures by whom she was to be judged; and timid,
gentle, oppressed, she fell trembling on her knees, and could only
articulate,

"Forgive me."

The curate would not listen to this supplication till she had replied to
this question, "Whose child is this?"

She replied, "I do not know."

Questioned louder, and with more violence still, "how the child came
there, wherefore her affection for it, and whose it was," she felt the
improbability of the truth still more forcibly than before, and dreaded
some immediate peril from her father's rage, should she dare to relate an
apparent lie. She paused to think upon a more probable tale than the
real one; and as she hesitated, shook in every limb--while her father
exclaimed,

"I understand the cause of this terror; it confirms your sisters' fears,
and your own shame. From your infancy I have predicted that some fatal
catastrophe would befall you. I never loved you like my other children--I
never had the cause: you were always unlike the rest--and I knew your
fate would be calamitous; but the very worst of my forebodings did not
come to this--so young, so guilty, and so artful! Tell me this instant,
are you married?"

Rebecca answered, "No."

The sisters lifted up their hands!

The father continued--"Vile creature, I thought as much. Still I will
know the father of this child."

She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and firmly vowed she "did not know
herself--nor who the mother was."

"This is not to be borne!" exclaimed the curate in fury. "Persist in
this, and you shall never see my face again. Both your chil