Madame Winthrop shuddered as she turned her pale, drawn face upon her son. “Truman, it seems as if I could bear no more; but I suppose you will complete my wretchedness by utterly repudiating me—you will never forgive me?” she said, in a despairing tone. “It is not my forgiveness alone that you should seek. If my wife can forgive you, it would hardly become your son to withhold his pardon from his mother,” he gravely returned, a tender light breaking over his face as he thought of the gentle spirit which Salome exhibited under her bitter persecutions. The woman flushed hotly at his words. Could she, with her indomitable pride, her haughty spirit, ever sue to that girl for pardon? It seemed a humiliation to which she could never subject herself. But she could not be the mother of such a son as Truman Winthrop without possessing some of the elements of nobility with which he had been endowed, although her nature had become warped and perverted by long-continued prosperity, selfishness, and the adulation of the world. She had been shocked and horrified by the revelations of her son, which showed her how nearly she had come to wrecking all their lives, their fortunes, and good name. It had aroused her conscience, too, and, though she shrank with the greatest repugnance from obeying its dictates, she realized that she could never regain her self-respect, nor the affection of her boy, until she made proper acknowledgment, and what restitution she could, for the wrong of which she had been guilty. “What can we do?” she faltered, trying to stifle for the moment the voice within her. “Everybody believes that you are soon to marry Miss Rochester.” Dr. Winthrop’s lips curled; for it seemed to him as if her first and only thought was for appearance. “That is a matter which I believe can be easily arranged,” he replied, with some coldness. “Norman and Sarah Rochester love each other. If they will agree, let their engagement be formally announced; let them even be immediately married, if he can be content to make a woman like her his wife, and the other belief will pass for a mistake, a society blunder. I do not wish to sacrifice my brother, however, to escape any scandal myself,” he added, flushing. “I can bear to have the truth known rather than that his life should be ruined by an unhappy marriage. Still, if the girl really loves him, such an arrangement may result in making a better woman of her.” Madame Winthrop’s heart sank. She could never bear to have the truth retailed from one end of Rome to the other. “I must go home,” she cried, rising. “I cannot remain here. Will you see Mrs. Tillinghast and make my excuses? Tell her that I have become suddenly indisposed, which is true enough, for no mortal can know the bewildered state of mind I am in.” “Yes, mother, I will make your adieus. But—is there no other message that you would like me to deliver?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, searching her face wistfully.