‘But was no effort made to get the child back?’ ‘Oh yes! But I managed to get a dead baby, the very moral of his’n. An Italian lady staying in the house helped me. I dressed it in his clothes. The master thought it his own, and had it buried in the family vault.’ ‘That was very wrong of you.’ ‘Perhaps it was. But had not the master and missus both wronged me? Arter that I got married, but me and my husband were always quarrelling about the boy, and that made me take to drink, and then, when I lost my husband, I drank worse and worse.’ ‘And then you went on the tramp, and left the boy at Sloville, and I took him.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He is a good boy.’ ‘He allus was.’ ‘But why did you not see him righted?’ ‘I did one day. I had a letter sent to Sir Watkin, and he sent me word it was all a lie, that his boy was dead. Then his lady died, and he went abroad, and—’ ‘And you never saw him again?’ ‘Only twice. When I saw him outside your theater and tried to speak to him. But he pushed me into the street, and then I met with my accident. He’s a hard un and a bad un.’ ‘And when again?’ ‘Not very long ago; when they had the election at Sloville. I was there and he too, but he would not look at me. Oh, he was harder than ever!’ ‘Speak not of him now—he’s dead.’ ‘Dead! Oh, dear!’ said the woman. ‘Do you mean to say he’s really dead?’ ‘Yes,’ said the actress, ‘he died only a few days since.’ ‘And I am dying—oh, dear! What a wicked woman I’ve been! What mischief I’ve done!’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Why, I meant to restore the boy.’ ‘It is too late—the boy has no father now. Is this truth you tell me? It is a strange story.’ ‘The truth, so help me God.’ Then she sank back utterly overcome. At length she said: ‘I’ve not long to live, have I?’ ‘I fear not.’ ‘You’ll see me buried decent?’ ‘Yes, I will.’ ‘And you’ll be kind to the boy and see that he has his rights?’ ‘If I can.’ ‘That makes me feel better.’ ‘I am glad of that.’ ‘You are kind.’ ‘How can I be otherwise? You’re but a woman, and I am no more.’ ‘They’re all kind here,’ said the woman, sobbing. ‘It is because they love God.’ ‘Ah, so the parson says. Sir Watkin used to tell me the parson told lies.’ ‘And you believed him?’ ‘Yes—I don’t now.’ ‘God is our Father, and He loves us all.’ ‘What, me?’ ‘Yes, you.’ ‘What, me, with all my wickedness?’ ‘Yes, you and I, with all our guilt and sin. His heart pants with tenderness for all. He has no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that he should turn to Him and live. He sent Jesus Christ, His Son, to save us.’ ‘Do you believe that?’ ‘Yes, with all my heart. I should be wretched indeed if I did not. Daily my prayer is, “God be merciful to me, a sinner.’” ‘Ah, I like to hear you talk. I’ve not heerd such talk since I was a gal, and then I did not believe it. But it does me good now.’