'Here, Ambrose,' the dying father said--'this--this is your mother; be a good son to her.' Often as Mary Gifford had drawn a picture in her own mind of this possible meeting with her son, so long delayed, such a meeting as this had never been imagined in her wildest dreams. 'Thus, then, I make atonement,' the unhappy man said. 'Take him, Mary, and forgive it _all_.' 'Yes,' Mary said, as the boy was laid on the pallet at his father's feet, and his mother clasped him close to her side. 'Yes, I forgive--' '_All?_' he said. '_All?_' 'As I pray God to be forgiven,' she said, womanly pity for this forlorn ending of a misspent life thrilling in her voice, as hot tears coursed one another down her pale sweet face. 'Yes,' she repeated, '_all_! Ambrose.' 'One thing more. Did I murder Humphrey Ratcliffe? Does that sin lie on my soul?' 'No, thank God!' Mary said. 'He lives; he was cruelly wounded, but God spared his life.' There was silence now. The priest bid Mary move from the bed, and let him approach; but, before she did so, she bent over her husband and said,-- 'Have you gone to the Saviour of the world for forgiveness through His precious blood, Ambrose? He alone can forgive sins.' 'I know it! I know it!' was the reply. But the priest interfered now. 'Withdraw, my daughter, for the end is near.' Then Mary, bending still lower, pressed a kiss upon the forehead, where the cold dews of death were gathering, and, turning towards her boy, she said,-- 'Where shall I take him? Where can I go with him, my son, my son?' There was something in Mary's self-restraint and in the pathetic tones of her voice, which moved those who stood around to pity as she repeated,-- 'Where can I find a refuge with my child? I cannot remain here with him.' One of the Brothers raised Ambrose again in his arms, and saying, 'Follow me,' he carried him to a small chamber on the upper floor, where he laid him down on a heap of straw covered with an old sacking, and said in English,-- 'This is all I can do for you. Yonder room whence we came is kept for those stricken with the fever. Two of them died yesterday. We were burned out of house and home, and our oratory sacked and destroyed at Axel. We fled hither, and a troop of the Duke's army is within a mile to protect us.' 'Is there no leech at hand, no one to care for my child?' 'There was one here yester eve. He is attached to the troop I speak of, and has enow to do with the sick there. Famine and moisture have done their work, and God knows where it will end. There is a good woman at a small homestead not a mile away. She has kept us from starving, and, like many of the Hollanders, has a kind heart. I will do my best to get her to befriend you, Mistress, for I see you are in a sorry plight.' 'Even water to wet his lips would be a boon. I pray you fetch water,' she entreated.