“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned it. My pride was wounded, my ambition thwarted. I thought Georgiana loved you, and that this girl had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness. I appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing on this earth should win our consent to your marriage with her. She told me how young Ward had persecuted her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I was, bade her leave you in doubt, that you might be shocked out of your love. She pleaded, she wept, she protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her word to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to rest there.” “Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!” “I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!” Savage was standing before his mother, white as death, but with a glow of deep thoughtfulness in his eyes. “And she is innocent?” “As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing the evil thoughts you had of her. The worst she dreamed of was, that you supposed her capable of marrying that young scapegrace.” “Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the insult so deeply! But I was cruel with her, the innocent darling.” “No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade her to explain; I, who left her, broken-hearted, to struggle against her honest affection, and the shame of which she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me, Horace?” “Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you should ask of your son? The question is, will Anna Burns ever forgive me?” “She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble myself as is befitting one who has given way to her pride cruelly as I have. But first, Horace, say that you will forget this, and love me in the old way?” Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic mouth worked with emotion. That look of yearning entreaty went to the son’s heart; he knelt by her side, kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which were still heavy with repentant dew. “Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility of soul which gives back the bloom to my life. It was love for me that made you, for a time, less than yourself. That I will forget.” “And love me dearly, as of old?” “Indeed, and indeed, I will.” “This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget me.” The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard to give him up. “Mother, do you love my father less because of me?” “No, no! How should I?” “Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The heart that can feel it at all in its perfection, grows larger and grander with each new object of affection.” The mother’s face became luminous with one of those smiles which flood all the features with sunshine. She fell forward upon her son’s bosom, sighing away the last remnants of her unhappiness. “God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns dearly for your sake!” “May I go to her now, mother?”