“Did I ever love anybody? Lawk a mercy! to be sure I did. I loved your poor father, and I loved my children when they come, and I love you now, though you are such a bad ’un, and I love that little chap. What does this mean?” “I want you to consider, mother. The sort of love you’re speaking about is not what I mean. When you were engaged to my father, and when you married him, did you ever feel that you would have committed even a crime if he wanted it, just because you loved him so well?” “A mercy me! no,” said the little woman. She rose now and dropped a curtsey. “My word! you are upsettin’, Clary. To be sure I loved Thomas. He was a good man when he wasn’t in his tantrums, but as to committing a crime for him, no, no, nothing of that sort. I wouldn’t have sinned for him, not I.” “Then you don’t understand anything about desperate, passionate love,” said the younger woman. “You don’t understand the love I feel. I love Luke, for years I have loved him. What I did was my one and only chance of winning him.” “Then you’re a greater fool than I gave you credit for,” said the old woman. “It’s all past bearing, and I don’t think I can keep the secret any longer.” “Sleep over it, mother,” said Clara. “You are tired. I will get you a room ready for you.” “Oh, I’d be frightened to sleep in this grand house. I’ll go out and get a lodging near by.” “No, you won’t. I won’t have it said that I turned my own mother out of doors at this hour. You must sleep here. Come, I’ll take you up-stairs.” “You are as masterful as of old, Clary; but, dear heart, I don’t like sleeping in a house of this sort. However, as it’s late, and if you promise to give me the smallest room and the plainest you has, I’ll stay.” “Yes; I can give you a nice little dressing-room beyond mine, with a snug bed in it. I’ll have a fire lit.” “Sakes alive! don’t give me a fire in my bedroom. I hates ’em past bearing, they’re not healthy.” “Very well, mother, just as you please, but it’s late now, and you must rest.” Clara took her mother up-stairs, gave her every requisite for the night, and left her. Then she went to her own room. Prepared as she supposed herself to be for every possible emergency, it had not occurred to her that her mother would first discover her secret and then refuse to keep it. She knew that the present danger was great. Whatever she herself might resolve to do in the future it would never, never do for her mother to forestall her. The child must be removed from the old woman, and if Mrs. Ives did not promise to respect Clara’s secret she would have to be deprived of her liberty. To do this was no easy matter. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE “PELHAM ARMS.”