“He swore to it before, Arthur, on the day when I sued him for divorce. He came to me swearing his innocence, pleading for mercy. I turned from him in anger, refusing to believe him, scorning all his prayers.” “How could you be so hard, mother?” “I was mad with wounded love and jealousy. I had let that fiendish girl destroy, with cunning arts, all my faith in him. Besides, my father was against him. He feared he had married me for my wealth alone.” “Poor mother, how you were tortured! No wonder you made such a fatal mistake.” “Arthur, Arthur,” her voice rang out wildly, “you believe that it was a mistake?” He came up to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her earnestly, tenderly. “Mother, must I tell you frankly what I believe, what I have believed in my soul ever since my first interview with my father, that day in Washington?” “Yes; speak the whole truth, though it crushes me!” sighed the unhappy woman; and he answered: “I do not mean to be cruel to you, dear mother, I pity you, and I understand your terrible provocation for all you did, but I believe in my father’s innocence and his perfect nobility. He told me his full story in Washington, and I have believed in him, loved him, revered him ever since, and his death will be a blow to me only second to your own.” “Then, Arthur, I am a miserable sinner. I have wrecked his life!” contritely. “Then you must acknowledge your fault, and beg his forgiveness.” “He has sworn that he will never forgive me as long as I live. Oh, my heart, what a cruel wretch I have been to him! And I loved him so! I do not merit his forgiveness.” “But he shall grant it, mother. I will add my prayers to yours.” “Oh, Arthur, shall we go to him now, my poor, wronged love?” weeping. “Not now, dear mother, because he is exhausted, and needs rest. We must wait.” “Oh, if he could know my shame and repentance! And how I have loved him always in spite of myself! Might it not comfort him, Arthur?” “I will find out when he can see you, and tell you himself, mother, if you will be very patient, and let him rest awhile first, mother.” “I will wait as long as you wish me, Arthur, my poor boy, for I need your forgiveness, too. I have wronged you also, depriving you these long and weary years of a father’s love. Besides, there was all your bitter trouble over Cinthia. But thank Heaven, it is all over now, that sorrow.” “Yes, it is all over now,” he said, calmly, but with white lips. And then he went away to his father’s room, where Mrs. Flint was sitting alone, wishing he were not so restless, fearing it was a bad sign. Arthur bent over him caressingly, and whispered: “My poor mother, after years of sorrow, divided between doubt and anger, is at last convinced of your innocence, and her poor heart is breaking with remorse for her sin and love that she could never conquer.” He saw a strange gleam in the deep blue eyes, and the pale lips twitched with emotion. He continued, almost pleadingly: