When Herbert entered the room, Mr. Prendergast came forward from where he was standing, and took him by the hand. "This is a very sad affair," he said; "very sad." "At present I know nothing about it," said Herbert. "As I see people about me so unhappy, I suppose it is sad. If there be anything that I hate, it is a mystery." "Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the other; "sit down." And Mr. Prendergast himself sat down in the chair that was ordinarily occupied by Sir Thomas. Although he had been thinking about it all the day, he had not even yet made up his mind how he was to begin his story. Even now he could not help thinking whether it might be possible for him to leave it untold. But it was not possible. "Mr. Fitzgerald," said he, "you must prepare yourself for tidings which are very grievous indeed--very grievous." "Whatever it is I must bear it," said he. "I hope you have that moral strength which enables a man to bear misfortune. I have not known you in happy days, and therefore perhaps can hardly judge; but it seems to me that you do possess such courage. Did I not think so, I could hardly go through the task that is before me." Here he paused as though he expected some reply, some assurance that his young friend did possess this strength of which he spoke; but Herbert said nothing--nothing out loud. "If it were only for myself! if it were only for myself!" It was thus that he spoke to his own heart. "Mr. Fitzgerald," continued the lawyer, "I do not know how far you may be acquainted with the history of your mother's first marriage." Herbert said that he was hardly acquainted with it in any degree; and explained that he merely knew the fact that his mother had been married before she met Sir Thomas. "I do not know that I need recount all the circumstances to you now, though doubtless you will learn them. Your mother's conduct throughout was, I believe, admirable." "I am quite sure of that. No amount of evidence could make me believe the contrary." "And there is no tittle of evidence to make any one think so. But in her early youth, when she was quite a child, she was given in marriage to a man--to a man of whom it is impossible to speak in terms too black, or in language too strong. And now, this day--" But here he paused. It had been his intention to say that that very man, the first husband of this loved mother now looked upon as dead for so many years, this miscreant of whom he had spoken--that this man had been in that room that very day. But he hardly knew how to frame the words. "Well," said Herbert, "well;" and he spoke in a hoarse voice that was scarcely audible. Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his story in so abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, to feel, that as regarded Herbert it was done,--but his heart failed him when he came to it.