"You are a good man," said the dying woman, faintly, stretching out her hand. "You will find some one to love you better than I would have done." "Never! Ah, never!" "Believe me, what I say is true. Ah!" she cried, with a terrified look on her face. "Kaituna, my dearest!" In a moment Kaituna was on her knees again, bending over her mother, with the hot tears falling from her eyes. "Mother! mother! would you like to see a clergyman?" "No, my darling no! I have sinned--I have sinned bitterly, but perhaps God in His mercy will accept the expiation. Archie, be good to my little child. Oh, my little girl, whom I lost for so many weary, weary years, put your arms, your dear arms, round me, and let the outcast die on the bosom of her child!" The murmuring noise from the street penetrated into the room; the dim light of the candles flickered and flared in the faint breath of the wind, and there was silence among all kneeling there, save for the sobs of Kaituna and the broken mutterings of the dying woman repeating a prayer. "Our Father, which art in Heaven----Oh, my child, my child, will he forgive me--will He forgive me?" "I'm sure He will, mother!" "Half a savage, half civilised! Ah, if I had only been guided, I might have been a good woman; but we were both wrong, Rupert and---- Kaituna, my little child, I--I am leaving you! Oh, my baby--kiss me, my dearest--my little----" Her head fell inertly on the encircling arm of the girl, and Kaituna knew by the terribly calm look on the placid face that not all her love--not all her money--not all her prayers, had availed to save from death this mother whom she had lost and found--this mother who had sinned and repented--this mother who had given her life to save that of her child. CHAPTER XXXVI. A MEMORY OF THE PAST. "De Mortuis"--you know the phrase, I think; A kindly saying, such as poor humanity Mutters at times when talking of the dead; Therefore, I pray you, speak not any ill Of this poor soul who suffered, sinned, and died, Seeing her sinning brought her but to this; Yourself when gone may need a pitying word, When all your virtues with you are entombed, And naught remains but sins to curse your name. So it was Dombrain, after all, who had committed this crime, and, by accusing Mrs. Belswin of the murder, placed her life in jeopardy, in order both to revenge and save himself. Had it not been for the unexpected evidence of Samson Belk, without doubt the unhappy woman would have been found guilty, and suffered in the place of the astute Mr. Dombrain. When this ex-lawyer, ex-convict, and constant blackguard heard himself accused of the crime, he slipped out of the court and vanished before he could be arrested, knowing that he could make no defence.