“Yes, I saw it was too much. Ford, do you think you could sleep on the sofa, just to be at hand if we wanted anything? I am not easy about her still. We’ll stay together to-night. Lie down and I will sit by you, and when you are able you will tell me----” “My lady, it would be much better for you to get your natural rest.” “Mary, you must not sit up with me!” “And why not, I should like to know,” said Mary. “Don’t you know I’m very happy to-night. Don’t you know I’ve found it out what has been on my mind so long. I knew there was something. I have never said anything to you, but it has been, oh so heavy on my mind! Something, something that has gone away from me that I could not get back, and when I dreamt of my old lord he was always frowning, always angry. Agnes! I was making this, and mother sitting, as there, and you pouring out tea, when--we were all very happy--I remember my thread breaking just there, when I had nearly finished. And I turned to take another, and--then there was something that happened before--before he was born.” “He was born that night,” cried Agnes, “God bless him.” She was very pale, and her eyes had become dry and shone as if with fever. In her mind there was a deep wonder whether Mar heard her, whether it would please him, though he was dead, to have the story of his infancy told to his mother. And with this half distracted thought came one that was quite real, quite rational; the anxious determination to shut out all reference to Letitia’s visit from the still wavering mind of her sister; to keep that which was the key of all that followed from her recollection if possible. “He was born that night--God bless him!” said Mary slowly. Then she added, “I remember a cluster of people bending over him, and the light on father’s bald head, and my dear old lord with his face down quite close, and the doctor standing saying something about the child. And then--and then--what happened? I remember no more.” “You were very ill, oh very ill; so ill that--Oh,” said Agnes, “don’t make me think of that terrible time.” “Ah!” said Mary, a quiet seriousness coming over her face, though her lips still smiled, “you thought I was going to die.” Agnes made no reply. “But even that,” said Lady Frogmore, “was not enough to make you all deceive me so cruelly. No, no, my dear, I did not mean cruelly. You must have thought it for the best. One can but do what one thinks is for the best. Was there ever such a thing before that a woman should live and never know. Do you remember what the Bible says, ‘Can a woman forget her child, that she should not remember----’