“In the name of God,” said he to Lady Elmwood, “of that God, who suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and pitied all our weaknesses—By him, who has given his word to _take compassion on the sinner’s tears_, I bid you hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived, be comforted—By the sorrows you have known since your degradation, hope, that in some measure, you have atoned—By the sincerity that shone upon your youthful face when I joined your hands, and those thousand virtues you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were not born to die _the death of the wicked_.” As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling hand clasped his—her dying eyes darted a ray of brightness—but her failing voice endeavoured in vain, to articulate. At length, fixing her looks upon her daughter as their last dear object, she was just understood to utter the word “Father.” “I understand you,” replied Sandford, “and by all that influence I ever had over him, by my prayers, my tears,” (and they flowed as he spoke) “I will implore him to own his child.” She could now only smile in thanks. “And if I should fail,” continued he, “yet while I live, she shall not want a friend or protector—all an old man, like me can answer for”——here his tears interrupted him. Lady Elmwood was sufficiently sensible of his words and their import, to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him: but finding her life leaving her fast, she reserved this last token of love for her daughter—with a struggle she lifted herself from her pillow, clung to her child—and died in her arms. CHAPTER III.