“Oh!” cried the mother in a tone of intolerable impatience--“That is nonsense, you know, Mr. Blotting. Why, I was there! How can she persist when every body knows to the contrary. My daughter Mary has been troubled in her mind, poor thing; but she never was idiotic I hope--and when I speak to her--Agnes, what nonsense! I must speak to her! It is the most dreadful dereliction of duty to let things like this go on----” “Dr. Marsden says she is going through a very important crisis,” said Agnes; “and that her mind must not be disturbed----” “Oh, Dr. Marsden!” cried Mrs. Hill: she did not say blank him, or dash him, or anything that a clergyman’s wife ought not to say--but she meant it, as was very clear. “How should Mr. Marsden know better than her mother?” she inquired with dignity, as if to such a question there could be but one reply. “I am of the same opinion as your mother,” said the vicar. “I think you will find after I have had a conversation with her that there will be no further trouble. She will not stand out against me.” “Oh!” Mrs. Hill cried--and stopped again--for she had not the same faith in her husband’s intervention. “But,” she added quickly, “I am of opinion that when she is told the facts calmly, with the proofs I can bring, for I saw everything with my own eyes. Mary who was always a reasonable creature--you know,” she cried, with a little laugh and toss of her head, “there never was such a thing known in this world as that a mother should disown her child.” “No doubt,” said Mr. Blotting, “there will be no want of proof. The little lord’s rights are safe enough. But who’s to have the custody?--not a mad mother who disowns him----” “Sir!” cried Mrs. Hill, springing to her feet. “Mr. Blotting,” said the vicar, “forgets, my dear--forgets of whom he’s speaking. Such a phrase used of my daughter----” “I beg your pardon,” said the man of business. He looked at Agnes, who had said nothing, whose eyes were anxiously fixed upon him. “I mean no offence. I must face the facts. What would the Court of Chancery or any other authority think of a mother who denied that her child was hers? She says she knows nothing about it, that she never had a child. It’s monstrous; it’s incredible. She says the most astounding things.” “What, what?” cried the old people, both together. They were half reproachful of Mary, wholly impatient of her folly, yet half excusing and apologizing all the time. “She says it is quite impossible she could ever have done such a thing. I can only give you the poor lady’s own words. She says she was bound in honor to someone--a woman’s name--probably you will know. Poor soul! Bound in honor to Jane or Marjorie never to have a child! I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but who do you think would give her the charge even of her own affairs after such a speech as that?” “Who is Jane or Marjorie?” said the vicar, mouthing the words. “I don’t know anybody of those names.”