Her life and all its illusions passed before her; by the truth that irradiated the illusions, she judged them and herself and saw what must be the atonement. All that she had believed to be the treasure of her life had been taken from her; but there was one thing left to her that she could give:--her truth to her son. When that price was paid, he would be hers to love; he was no longer hers to live for. He should found his life on no illusions, as she had founded hers. She must set him free to turn away from her; but when he turned away it would not be to leave her in the loneliness and the terror of heart that she had known; it would be to leave her in the church where she could pray for him. She answered her husband after her long silence, looking at her son. "It is true, Augustine," she said. "You have been mistaken. I did not leave him for that." Sir Hugh drew a breath of satisfaction. He glanced round at Augustine. It was not a venomous glance, but, with its dart of steely intention, it paid a debt of vengeance. "So,--we needn't say anything more about it," he said. "And--dearest--perhaps now you'll tell Augustine that he may go and leave us together." Amabel left her husband's side and went to her chair near the table. A strange calmness breathed from her. She sat with folded hands and downcast eyes. "Augustine, come here," she said. The young man came and stood before her. "Give me your hand." He gave it to her. She did not look at him but kept her eyes fixed on the ground while she clasped it. "Augustine," she said, "I want you to leave me with my husband. I must talk with him. He is going away soon. Tomorrow--tomorrow morning early, I will see you, here. I will have a great deal to say to you, my dear son." But Augustine, clutching her hand and trembling, looked down at her so that she raised her eyes to his. "I can't go, till you say something, now, Mother;"--his voice shook as it had shaken on that day of their parting, his face was livid and convulsed, as then;--"I will go away tonight--I don't know that I can ever return--unless you tell me that you are not going to take him back." He gazed down into his mother's eyes. She did not answer him; she did not speak. But, as he looked into them, he, too, for the first time, saw in them what she had seen in his. They dwelt on him; they widened; they almost smiled; they deeply promised him all--all--that he most longed for. She was his, her son's; she was not her husband's. What he had feared had never threatened him or her. This was a gift she had won the right to give. The depth of her repudiation yesterday gave her her warrant. And to Amabel, while they looked into each other's eyes, it was as if, in the darkness, some arching loveliness of dawn vaguely shaped itself above the altar. "Kiss me, dear Augustine," she said. She held up her forehead, closing her eyes, for the kiss that was her own.