mother might have been detected and punished for her design of
murder?"

"In that, perhaps, I was to blame," returned Henry: "but whoever the
mother was, I pitied her."

"Compassion on such an occasion was unplaced," said the dean.

"Was I wrong, sir, to pity the child?"

"No."

"Then how could I feel for _that_, and yet divest myself of all feeling
for its mother?"

"Its mother!" exclaimed William, in anger: "she ought to have been
immediately pursued, apprehended, and committed to prison."

"It struck me, cousin William," replied Henry, "that the father was more
deserving of a prison: the poor woman had abandoned only one--the man, in
all likelihood, had forsaken _two_ pitiable creatures."

William was pouring execrations "on the villain if such there could be,"
when Rebecca was announced.

Her eyes were half closed with weeping; deep confusion overspread her
face; and her tottering limbs could hardly support her to the awful
chamber where the dean, her father, and William sat in judgment, whilst
her beloved Henry stood arraigned as a culprit, by her false evidence.

Upon her entrance, her father first addressed her, and said in a stern,
threatening, yet feeling tone, "Unhappy girl, answer me before all
present--Have you, or have you not, owned yourself a mother?"

She replied, stealing a fearful look at Henry, "I have."

"And have you not," asked the dean, "owned that Henry Norwynne is the
father of your child?"

She seemed as if she wished to expostulate.

The curate raised his voice--"Have you or have you not?"

"I have," she faintly replied.

"Then here," cried the dean to William, "read that paper to her, and take
the Bible."

William read the paper, which in her name declared a momentous falsehood:
he then held the book in form, while she looked like one distracted--wrung
her hands, and was near sinking to the earth.

At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips to kiss, Henry
rushed to her--"Stop!" he cried, "Rebecca! do not wound your future
peace. I plainly see under what prejudices you have been accused, under
what fears you have fallen. But do not be terrified into the commission
of a crime which hereafter will distract your delicate conscience. My
requesting you of your father for my wife will satisfy his scruples,
prevent your oath--and here I make the demand."

"He at length confesses! Surprising audacity! Complicated villainy!"
exclaimed the dean; then added, "Henry