The magistrates and their retinue went their way, leaving Mrs. Duffy with her son, while Kate and Philip Carey stood by, a little aloof from them, and from each other. The man crept closer and closer to his mother, till his hot and heavy face rested upon her hand. There was a deep silence in the ward. Outside in the corridor, through the half open door, could be seen the policeman, still waiting for final orders. ‘Mother,’ sobbed out Duffy, in a smothered and faltering voice, ‘can you forgive me?’ ‘Why! there’s nothing to forgive, Johnny,’ she said, ‘and I’m so happy, I’d forgive everybody. I’d forgive the raskill as shot me. I have forgive him already, Johnny.’ ‘I want you to get well, mother,’ he said, with desperate earnestness, ‘and I’ll make it all up to you. I’m come back to work for you, and indeed, I’ll work. Will you forgive me, mother?’ ‘Forgive you, Johnny!’ she murmured, ‘it’s a easy thing to forgive a body when you love a body.’ The last words dropped faintly, syllable by syllable, from the old woman’s white lips, and Kate’s heart sank like lead. The withered face had grown paler, and the wrinkled eyelids closed slowly over the filmy blue eyes. Kate uttered a low cry of trouble, and Philip Carey turned quickly towards her. ‘Is she going to die, Philip?’ asked Kate. ‘She is very faint,’ he replied, ‘She has been too much excited, but she may rally yet. Go and send me a nurse, and do not return yourself.’ Kate walked softly down the ward, the tears falling fast from her eyes. She was no longer grieving over her own troubles, but for the hopeful, cheery, brave old woman, who had met her long-lost son again in such a manner, and at such a moment as this. She waited in the matron’s parlour until a message was brought to her that Mrs. Duffy was sleeping again, with her son watching and waiting beside her. Then she returned home with her father. ‘I’ve not the shadow of a doubt Duffy’s the man,’ shouted Dr. Layard to her, above the noise of the train; ‘but the thing cannot be brought home to him. The old woman is as true as truth itself, but she is labouring under a delusion. She no more believes that her son was the man who shot at her than I believe that you did it. I question whether she would believe Duffy himself if he owned it to her, which he must not do. I’ve told him so. I said, “Duffy, I feel pretty sure you are the villain that did it, and if she dies I’ll do my best to prove it. But never you tell your mother it was yourself; it would go far to break her heart.” And he said, “I’ll never speak a word about it, one way or the other, sir.” Oh! Duffy did it!’ ‘Do you think she will die?’ asked Kate. ‘Carey will do his best for her,’ said Dr. Layard; ‘I never saw such a change in a young fellow as there is in Carey. He is as dull as a beetle; just when he has got all he has been striving for, too! I don’t understand it.’