When he returned to the hall, his brother was passing into the room where the sick man lay. Paul was about to follow when his mother, who was walking aimlessly to and fro in yet more violent agitation than before, called on him to remain. He turned about and stepped up to her, observing as he did so that Hugh had paused on the threshold, and was regarding them with a steadfast look. Mrs. Ritson took Paul's hand with a nervous grasp. Her eyes, that bore the marks of recent tears, had the light of wild excitement. "God be praised that he is conscious at last!" she said. Paul shook his head as if in censure of his mother's feelings. "Let him die in peace," he said; "let his soul pass quietly to its rest. Don't vex it now with thoughts of the cares it leaves behind." Mrs. Ritson let go his hand, and dropped into a chair. A slight shudder passed over her. Paul looked down with a puzzled expression. Then there was a low sobbing. He leaned over his mother and smoothed her hair tenderly. "Come, let us go in," he said in a broken voice. Mrs. Ritson rose from her seat and went down on her knees. Her eyes, still wet, but no longer weeping, were raised to heaven. "Almighty Father, give me strength!" she said beneath her breath, and then more quietly she rose to her feet. Paul regarded her with increasing perturbation. Something even more serious than he yet knew of was amiss. Hardly knowing why, his heart sunk still deeper. "What are we doing?" he said, scarcely realizing his own words. Mrs. Ritson threw herself on his neck. "Did I not say there was a terrible reason why your father should make a will?" Paul's voice seemed to die within him. "What is it, mother?" he asked feebly, not yet gathering the meaning of his fears. "God knows, I never dreamed it would be my lips that must tell you," said Mrs. Ritson. "Paul, my son, my darling son, you think me a good mother and a pure woman. I am neither. I must confess all--now--and to you. Oh, how your love will turn from me!" Paul's face turned pale. His eyes gazed into his mother's eyes with a fixed look. The clock ticked audibly. Not another sound broke the silence. At last Paul spoke. "Speak, mother," he said; "is it something about my father?" Mrs. Ritson's face fell on to her son's breast. A strong shudder ran over her shoulders, and she sobbed aloud. "You are not your father's heir," she said; "you were born before we married.... But you will try not to hate me, ... your own mother.... You will try, will you not?" Paul's great frame shook visibly. He tried to speak. His tongue cleaved to his mouth. "Do you mean that I am--a bastard?" he said in a hoarse whisper. The word seemed to sting his mother like a poisoned arrow. She clung yet closer about his neck. "Pity me and love me still, though I have wronged you before God and man. I whom the world thought so pure--I am but a whited sepulcher--a dishonored woman dishonoring her dearest son!"