“Yes—an unhappy mother; but she has already consented. Aware that in perfect retirement her poor child can alone know happiness, she is willing to yield her up to your gentle treatment, and will in return bestow her love and tenderness upon your own babe. Reflect, you will still have one lovely child to console you, while the future welfare of both your children will be secured by the sacrifice; furthermore, there will be the heartfelt pleasure of knowing that through your watchful care an unfortunate being is made happy.” “Do you know aught of the pleasures of _duty_, that you talk so feelingly?” said the widow, scornfully. “Nay, reproach me not thus; look at your two children, those little beings confided to your care—can you see their little frames wasted by hunger, or sinking through toil; or, should you die, what then is there for them but a cold and bitter lot of poverty and death—or maybe a fate worse than death. You shudder; then why hesitate, when by simply yielding to my wishes you are all made comfortable and happy. I see you are moved. I have but one stipulation to make, should you consent, as I think you will; it may alarm you at first, but upon reflection you will see its propriety. It is this—you are to promise solemnly never to claim your child, but to acknowledge poor Agatha to be _yours_, and never, on any account or any emergency, divulge this important secret. Do not answer me,” said he, hastily, as he saw the widow was about to speak; “take time to consider my views—I will call at an early hour in the morning for your reply. Good night!” Then kissing the half-frightened children, the plausible brother of poor John Oakly softly closed the door, and once more entering his carriage, returned to the inn. It is difficult to conceive the pain and agitation with which this interview filled the breast of the poor widow. Doubts distracted her; and decision either way filled her with dread. One moment she resolved to spurn the offered ransom from poverty, the next, as her eyes dwelt on her helpless little ones doomed by such decision to years of toil and want, she wavered, and almost consented to part forever with her darling Louisa, if by the sacrifice their comfort might be secured. Then her mind wandered to the poor, cast-off Agatha, whom, perhaps, cruelty and harshness might destroy. She had well divined the father’s selfishness, and should she refuse the charge, he might entrust her to other hands less faithful—for already she felt her heart warm toward the unfortunate.