“It was all my fault,” sobbed the mother. “If I had pleaded for my boy you would have yielded, for your pride was not so great as mine.” “And, after all, the girl might not have been so objectionable. She was a poor girl,” he said, “but poverty is not a crime, dear.” “No--no; and we have wealth enough to spare as a royal dowry for our son’s bride. But, oh, the doubt as to whether she is pure and worthy!--for St. George is a noble son--it is that which tortures so cruelly. Oh, why did he not tell us who she was, that we might have judged for ourselves.” “It may be that he feared our interference with the girl during his absence.” “And he was right; for had I known where to find her, I should have bribed her, if possible, to give up her claim on St. George--yes, to go away and hide herself until the affair blew over,” confessed Mrs. Beresford, frankly. And had any one told the proud lady that she had employed a high-priced detective to seek the girl her son loved, and bring her home to the Fifth Avenue palace, she would have thought they had taken leave of their senses. The weary journey was over at last, and they reached London. Soon they were bending over their son’s sick-bed. But alas! it was enough to break their hearts, that sight. The lethargy of that terrible illness following on acute delirium held the patient in its grasp, and he did not recognize the fond, anxious faces that bent over him, his ears were deaf to their words of love. This condition continued for days, and they feared that the patient would sink into death without knowing the remorse and penitence they had crossed the sea to pour into his ears. CHAPTER XXXIV. TOO LATE! Oh, those days and nights of sorrow and suspense! The tortured parents would never forget them. The memory of their harshness was a lash to conscience that never ceased to sting. In the weary nightly vigils, when they hung over the sufferer’s bedside, the mother prayed, unceasingly: “Oh, God, give me back my boy, that I may atone!” All her pride was brought low. If she could have known where to find the mysterious girl her son loved, she would have dragged her by force, if necessary, to her son’s bedside, hoping that the sight of her beauty would lure him back to life. Oh, the strength of a mother’s love! What will it not endure and yield and suffer for the sake of the beloved one! The proud woman learned, in that fiery trial, all the strength of her love for her son--knew that it was stronger than pride or ambition, mightier than death. “Give him back that I may atone!” was her continual prayer, until it seemed as if God must have heard and pitied at last. The day came when he opened his heavy eyes and knew his mother. They lightened with a faint gleam of pleasure, and from that moment he began to convalesce. Memory lay dormant in his mind for days; but it wakened at last, as she knew by the sudden change on his face.