acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary. "Are you better, madam?" asked Mary, who had entered the room, very quietly. "Yes, I thank you, Mary; take your work and sit down; I wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, Joseph Rushbrook; you must have seen that I am much interested about him." "Yes, madam." "There were some portions of your story, Mary, which I do not quite understand. You have now lived with me for five years, and I have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. You have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman." "I am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion." "And I hope that you will admit that I have not been a hard mistress to you, Mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that I have been pleased with your conduct." "Certainly, madam, you have; and I trust I am grateful." "I believe so," replied Mrs Austin. "Now, Mary, I wish you to confide in me altogether. What I wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this Furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? I may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at Gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. It seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment." Mary's tears fell fast, but she made no reply. "Cannot you answer me, Mary?" "I can, madam," said she, at last; "but if I tell the truth--and I cannot tell a lie now--you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?" "Mary, if you think I intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong I ask the question because it is necessary that I should know the truth--because I cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, Mary, and do not be afraid." "Madam, I will; but pray do not forget that I have been under your roof for five years, and that I have been during that time an honest and modest girl. I was not so once, I confess it," and Mary's cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head.