She rises softly from her knees, and putting her hand under the pillow whereon rests the head of the corpse, draws forth the keys of the dead man, holding her breath meantime, fearful lest he should arise and lay cold hands upon her. The keys chink musically in the silence, then with stealthy stride and sound of sweeping dress, she crosses to the desk, bent on obtaining the letter written by the squire to Reginald Blake. The minutes slowly pass, and the wind is still rising; now howling furiously round the house, shaking the shutters and fluttering the curtains as though wroth at witnessing the sacrilegious theft it is powerless to prevent. With the letter in her hand, the woman who has committed this crime against the dead for the sake of her son, softly crosses the room toward the bed, replaces the keys in their old place under the pillow, and slipping the letter into her bosom, falls once more upon her knees with tearful eyes and outstretched hands. "_God! God! if I have sinned in this I pray for pardon, it is for my son's sake, oh God, not for my own_." Fearfully she looks at the frozen face, cold and still in the glimmering light of the candles; the dead has not seen, the dead has not heard--her crime is unknown to anyone on earth, but involuntarily she looks upward as though dreading to see the all-seeing eye of God burning menacingly through the gloom. Then with an effort she betakes herself once more to prayer. "_Oh God, pardon me for my sins, and pardon those of this poor soul who has of late gone into Thy presence_." One sinner fresh from the committal of a crime praying for the soul of another sinner. Oh, the irony--the irony of the prayer. CHAPTER XXIV. MR. BEAUMONT WINS HIS CASE. In truth he had a silver tongue Whose mild persuasive accents rung Like music in her ear; Despite her dread, despite her hate. She ever let him rule her fate And change her heart from joy elate To one that ached with fear.