Bressant made no reply to her uncanny petition, and a silence followed. Abbie stood wringing her hands, waving her head, and drawing her breath sobbingly between her teeth. Was she the same woman--stately, and almost beautiful--who had spoken so loftily and tenderly but a few minutes before? Are human generosity and affection founded on no securer basis? Her appearance was now revolting. Suddenly a thought struck her. "Ah! but she--_she_ can't escape," she broke forth, seizing upon the idea with a grisly eagerness of exultation. "You can't get _her_ away from me; I know her, oh! I know her, and I condemn her, I hate her--God! how I hate her. She shall never be forgiven--never, never. You can never cheat me out of _her_, for I know her." Abbie pressed both hands to her head. "You had better hold your tongue, old woman," Bressant said, in a low voice, and a deadlier passion than anger looked from his eyes as he fastened them upon her. "You're so hungry to send a soul to hell, take care you don't find yourself there. Do you think your past life can save you? Wait till I've told you what it has been. You began by blasting a true man's life, trusting too easily, against all internal evidence, to the lies that were told you about him. Next, you married the liar, not loving him, but so that the other might hear it, and believe you had forgotten him; so you acted a lie to him, and prostituted yourself bodily and spiritually to gratify your pride and revenge. Not the sort of thing that gets people to heaven, so far, is it?" Abbie still pressed her hands to her head, and stared before her without speaking. "You were false to your marriage vows; after that, you neglected your husband no less than he you; you never tried to make yourself lovable to him; you were the only wronged one! you could do no wrong yourself! At last you had a son." She raised her eyes, which, during the last few minutes had become bloodshot, and fixed them fearfully upon the young man's face, as he continued: "You loved him, as most females do love their young, and yet not so generously as most. It was not as his father's child, but only as your own, that he was dear to you; he was _your_ child, a part of yourself, and you loved him only because you loved yourself. "When he was still a baby you left your husband's house, and thereby, if justice were done, forfeited the recognition of good women, and pure society; but you took great credit to yourself because you left your son and your money behind you. Was it nothing in the balance, then, the scandal, worse than any poverty, which the recovery of your property would have caused? Nothing but self-sacrifice, to leave a sickly child to all the advantages that wealth could give it? Well, a month afterward, in spite of wealth, your son died."