"No, mother," said he, stopping his tears, and his eyes blazing out with earnestness; "there never was such a mother as you have been to me, and I won't believe any one who says it. I won't; and I'll knock them down if they say it again, I will!" He clenched his fist, with a fierce, defiant look on his face. "You forget, my child," said Ruth, in the sweetest, saddest tone that ever was heard, "I said it of myself; I said it because it was true." Leonard threw his arms tight round her, and hid his face against her bosom. She felt him pant there like some hunted creature. She had no soothing comfort to give him. "Oh, that she and he lay dead!" At last, exhausted, he lay so still and motionless, that she feared to look. She wanted him to speak, yet dreaded his first words. She kissed his hair, his head, his very clothes, murmuring low, inarticulate, moaning sounds. "Leonard," said she, "Leonard, look up at me! Leonard, look up!" But he only clung the closer, and hid his face the more. "My boy!" said she, "what can I do or say? If I tell you never to mind it--that it is nothing--I tell you false. It is a bitter shame and a sorrow that I have drawn down upon you. A shame, Leonard, because of me, your mother; but, Leonard, it is no disgrace or lowering of you in the eyes of God." She spoke now as if she had found the clue which might lead him to rest and strength at last. "Remember that, always. Remember that, when the time of trial comes--and it seems a hard and cruel thing that you should be called reproachful names by men, and all for what was no fault of yours--remember God's pity and God's justice; and though my sin shall have made you an outcast in the world--oh, my child, my child!"--(she felt him kiss her, as if mutely trying to comfort her--it gave her strength to go on)--"remember, darling of my heart, it is only your own sin that can make you an outcast from God." She grew so faint that her hold of him relaxed. He looked up affrighted. He brought her water--he threw it over her; in his terror at the notion that she was going to die and leave him, he called her by every fond name, imploring her to open her eyes. When she partially recovered, he helped her to the bed, on which she lay still, wan and death-like. She almost hoped the swoon that hung around her might be Death, and in that imagination she opened her eyes to take a last look at her boy. She saw him pale and terror-stricken; and pity for his affright roused her, and made her forget herself in the wish that he should not see her death, if she were indeed dying. "Go to Aunt Faith!" whispered she; "I am weary, and want sleep." Leonard arose slowly and reluctantly. She tried to smile upon him, that what she thought would be her last look might dwell in his remembrance as tender and strong; she watched him to the door; she saw him hesitate, and return to her. He came back to her, and said in a timid, apprehensive tone: "Mother--will _they_ speak to me about--it?"