"Say that it is not true! Tell me that woman has lied!--that there was no man with you on the island but your uncle and her detestable son! "You do not answer me? Speak! Let me hear that there is not a word of truth in her horrid insinuations. I will even say that I am not sorry you would have none of such a woman's son;" and here her voice veered round into the minor key. "I shall not press you to think of _him_. His mother is no better than a common scold. Do you hear me, Margaret? "You will not speak? Is it that you cannot deny the scandalous things she has been saying?--that you could plan a surreptitious meeting, upon a lonely island, with a man? "What will people say? It could have been but a chance that your uncle was there to save appearances. Have you no thought for your character? Is every scurrilous beldame to bandy your name about?--and have the right to do it? Have you no womanly pride? and will you drag your innocent young sister in the mire with you?--and your too trusting mother? What have we done that you should expose us to public scorn? "Ah me! that I should have lived for this! How could you do it? To dig your mother's grave before her eyes! Say that you did not mean it!--that it was thoughtlessness!--that you listened to the voice of a tempter!--that you will not do it again! He is a serpent, Margaret. "You do not answer me? Ah! my poor heart! How it throbs!" and she pressed her side, and sank into a chair. "You will kill me, Margaret, with shame and grief. A mother cannot survive such undutifulness. My blood will cry at you from the ground! What peace can you ever hope to know, when you have killed your mother?" and here her handkerchief came into use. She covered her face and sobbed. Margaret was greatly moved. Her eyes were full. She durst not speak, even if she would; she must have broken down had she attempted it. She was distressed to see her mother shedding tears. To be threatened with her early death was terrible. She would do anything to calm her--anything else, at least, whatever it might cost herself. But she had given her promise to Walter--poor Walter! whom her mother used to be so fond of. How could she take it again? It was no longer hers. She could only stand in despair and shame, and see her mother weep herself back into composure. Mrs Naylor's composure returned all the sooner, that nothing seemed likely to come of her having yielded to her feelings. She pulled the handkerchief from her reddened eyes, and with a concluding sob which was partly a sniff of impatience, put it back in her pocket.