d and you
I'll turn out of my house instantly, unless you confess your crime, and
own the father."

Curious to know this secret, the sisters went up to Rebecca with seeming
kindness, and "conjured her to spare her father still greater grief, and
her own and her child's public infamy, by acknowledging herself its
mother, and naming the man who had undone her."

Emboldened by this insult from her own sex, Rebecca now began to declare
the simple truth. But no sooner had she said that "the child was
presented to her care by a young man who had found it," than her sisters
burst into laughter, and her father into redoubled rage.

Once more the women offered their advice--"to confess and be forgiven."

Once more the father raved.

Beguiled by solicitations, and terrified by threats, like women formerly
accused of witchcraft, and other wretches put to the torture, she thought
her present sufferings worse than any that could possibly succeed; and
felt inclined to confess a falsehood, at which her virtue shrunk, to
obtain a momentary respite from reproach; she felt inclined to take the
mother's share of the infant, but was at a loss to whom to give the
father's. She thought that Henry had entailed on himself the best right
to the charge; but she loved him, and could not bear the thought of
accusing him falsely.

While, with agitation in the extreme, she thus deliberated, the
proposition again was put,

"Whether she would trust to the mercy of her father by confessing, or
draw down his immediate vengeance by denying her guilt?"

She made choice of the former--and with tears and sobs "owned herself the
mother of the boy."

But still--"Who is the father?"

Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently implored "to be spared
on that point."

Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the curate's rage increased
till she acknowledged,

"Henry was the father."

"I thought so," exclaimed all her sisters at the same time.

"Villain!" cried the curate. "The dean shall know, before this hour is
expired, the baseness of the nephew whom he supports upon charity; he
shall know the misery, the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how
unworthy he is of his protection."

"Oh! have mercy on him!" cried Rebecca, as she still knelt to her father:
"do not ruin him with his uncle, for he is the best of human beings."

"Ay, ay, we always saw how much she loved him," cried her sisters.

"Wicked, unfortunate girl!"