I went to the cottage--alone, of course. I asked the old woman to let me come in and rest, for I was a stranger, weak and tired. She did so kindly, remembering, perhaps, how I had once noticed the boy. He was her grandson she told me--her daughter's child. Her daughter! And this old creature was a coarse, rough-spoken woman--a laborer's wife. Laurence Shelmerdine--the elegant--the refined--what madness must have possessed him! "She died very young, then, your daughter?" I found courage to say. "Ay, ay; in a few months after the boy's birth. She was but a weakly thing at best, and she had troubles enow." Quickly came the blood to my heart--to my cheek--in bitter, bitter shame. Not for myself, but for him. I shrank like a guilty thing before that mother's eye. I dared not ask--what I longed to hear--concerning the poor girl, and her sad history. "Is the child like her?" was all I could say, looking to where the little one was playing, at the far end of the garden. I was glad not to see him nearer. "Was his mother as beautiful as he?" "Ay, a good-looking lass enough; but the little lad's like his father, who was a gentleman born: though Laurence had better ha' been a plowman's son. A bad business Bess made of it. To this day I dunnot know her right name, nor little Laurence's there; and so I canna make his father own him. He ought, for the lad's growing up as grand a gentleman as himself: he'll never do to live with poor folk like granny." "Alas!" I cried, forgetting all but my compassion; "then how will the child bear his lot of shame!" "Shame!" and the old woman came up fiercely to me. "You'd better mind your own business: my Bess was as good as you." I trembled violently, but could not speak. The woman went on: "I dunnot care if I blab it all out, though Bess begged me not. She was a fool, and the young fellow something worse. His father tried--may-be he wished to try, too--but they couldna undo what had been done. My girl was safe married to him, and the little lad's a gentleman's lawful son." Oh! joy beyond belief! Oh! bursting blessed tears! My Laurence! my Laurence! * * * I have no clear recollection of any thing more, save that I suppose the woman thought me mad, and fled out of the cottage. My first consciousness is of finding myself quite alone, with the door open, and a child looking in at me in wonderment, but with a gentleness such as I have seen my husband wear. No marvel I had loved that childish face: it was such as might have been _his_ when he was a boy. I cried, tremulously, "Laurence! little Laurence!" He came to me, smiling and pleased. One faint struggle I had--forgive me, poor dead girl!--and then I took the child in my arms, and kissed him as though I had been his mother For thy sake--for thy sake--my husband! * * * * *