Mary’s lips opened as if to reply--then she paused. “Who am I to be angry!” she said. “I have given her cause to speak. Oh, go,” she cried, “go. I will not accuse you. You know what you have done, and I know, and that will separate us for ever and ever. No one, no one shall come near my child to harm him again, for his mother will be there. Go, you wicked woman, go.” “You are mad,” cried Letitia, “who would believe a mad woman? Say what you please, do you think anyone will listen to you! You are mad, mad! I’ll have you put in an asylum. I’ll have you shut up. I’ll--Oh, save me from her, she’s mad, she’s mad!” cried Letitia, with a shriek. There was someone coming--and Mary had put forth her hands as if to seize her again. Letitia ran past her to the door, and there stood for a moment panting, vindictive. “Do you think they will leave him with a mad woman?” she cried, then gave another shriek and fled; for it was not John as she thought who was coming to protect her but another cloaked figure like a repetition of Mary’s, who appeared on the other side. She did not stop for further parley, but ran wildly, with the precipitation of terror, into the long, silent, dim corridor. “What has happened? What is it?” said Agnes, terrified, going up to her sister who stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room, the light falling upon her face. Mary put her arms round her, giving her a close momentary embrace, which was half joy to see some one come who would stand by her, and half an instinctive motion to support herself and derive strength from her sister’s touch. “I came in time,” she said. “I saved him. He is safe. I will never leave my child again. Oh never while she is here----” “What is it? What is it, Mary?”