“No enemy of mine! The man who murdered my child no enemy of mine! I am his enemy then, and that he shall find. If I cannot bring him to the gallows, I can at least make every man and woman in the country point the finger of scorn and hatred at him. I can bring him and all his to disgrace and ruin. Their pride indeed! They were far too grand to visit me, but not to send a murderer into my family. I am in my rights, and I will have justice. We shall see if they are too grand to have a nephew hung! My poor lovely innocent! I will have justice on the foul villain. Cringing shall not turn me.” Her lips were white, and her teeth set. She rose with the slow movement of one whose intent, if it had blossomed in passion, was yet rooted in determination, and turned to leave the church. “It might hamper your proceedings a little,” said Wingfold, “if in the meantime a charge of bigamy were brought against yourself, MRS. DREW!” Her back was towards the curate, and for a moment she stood like another pillar of salt. Then she began to tremble, and laid hold of the carved top of a bench. But her strength failed her completely; she sank on her knees and fell on the floor with a deep moan. The curate called Mrs. Jenkins and sent her for water. With some difficulty they brought her to herself. She rose, shuddered, drew her shawl about her, and said to the woman, “I am sorry to give so much trouble. When does the next train start for London?” “Within an hour,” answered the curate. “I will see you safe to it.” “Excuse me; I prefer going alone.” “That I cannot permit.” “I must go to my lodgings first.” “I will go with you.” She cast on him a look of questioning hate, yielded, and laid two fingers on his offered arm. They walked out of the church together and to the cottage where, for privacy, she had lodged. There he left her for half an hour, and, yielding to her own necessities and not his entreaties, she took some refreshment. In the glowing sullenness of foiled revenge, the smoke of which was crossed every now and then by a flash of hate, she sat until he returned. “Before I go with you to the train,” said the curate, re-entering, “you must give me your word to leave young Lingard unmolested. I know my friend Mr. Drew has no desire to trouble you, but I am equally confident that he will do whatever I ask him. If you will not promise me, from the moment you get into the train you shall be watched.--Do you promise?” She was silent, with cold gleaming eyes, for a time, then said, “How am I to know that this is not a trick to save his life?” “You saw him; you could see he is dying. I tell you I do not think he can live a month. His disease is making rapid progress. He must go with the first of the cold weather.” She could not help believing him. “I promise,” she said. “But you are cruel to compel a mother to forgive the villain that stabbed her daughter to the heart.”