"Yes, Jean," replied the woman. "The girl you deceived! The girl you married and then deserted! The woman whose life you have blighted and ruined! I had almost given up believing in God; but now--now--faith may come back to me; but it's only a faith inspired by hatred!" "You hate me, then?" he said. "Is it possible to do anything else?" she replied. "Wait a minute," he said. "Let me think. I shall be able to speak connectedly presently. For a moment I've lost hold of things. Yes, yes; I don't deny anything; but wait a minute! What have you done with yourself all these years, Jean?" "Done with myself? What could I do? I was almost without a penny. A few months after you left me my father drove me from home. I was in disgrace, and only hell seemed to gape at my feet!" "But you're here," he said in a dazed kind of way. "You're well clothed. This cottage, though poor, shows a degree of comfort. You're not penniless, then? Have--have you married--again?" The woman started back from him at these words, and lifted her hand as if to strike him. "Douglas Graham," she said, "do not drive me too far!" "But how have you been supported all these years? What have you done?" "You know! You know!" she almost screamed. "I know nothing," was his reply. "Where have you lived? Where do you live now? Is this your home, or are you only staying here temporarily?" He seemed to be trying, in a confused sort of way, to understand how things stood. Evidently the shock of meeting her, after all the long years, had wellnigh unbalanced his mind. "But don't you know? You must know! No; it may be that you don't," and the woman laughed like one in glee. "Then I will tell you," she said. "I am Paul Stepaside's mother, and Paul Stepaside is your son!" The man gave a gasp as if for breath. His body swayed to and fro as though he found it difficult to stand upright. Then a hoarse cry escaped him: "Paul Stepaside my son!" "Ay, your son," replied the woman. "Yes, I have read what the man said this morning. It was in the evening paper, so I know that you know all about it. I had no name, so he was given the name of the hamlet where I was lying when they found me, thinking I was dead. They took me to the workhouse, where Paul was born, and because I refused to give them my name they called him Stepaside. But he's your son, don't you see? Your son! Your son!" And the woman laughed harshly. He seemed to be trying to understand the full meaning of her words. "My son! My son!" he repeated again and again. "Yes, your son! And he's accused of the murder of Ned Wilson, and you are the judge who is trying his own son! Truly, the ways of the Lord are as a deep sea. Yet he's a God of justice, too! I never believed in it as I believe in it now." "But tell me more," he said presently; and his voice was hoarse and unnatural.