'All?' he said. 'All?'
'As I pray God to be forgiven,' she said, womanly pity for this forlorn ending of a misspent life thrilling in her voice, as hot tears coursed one another down her pale sweet face. 'Yes,' she repeated, 'all! Ambrose.'
'One thing more. Did I murder Humphrey Ratcliffe? Does that sin lie on my soul?'
'No, thank God!' Mary said. 'He lives; he was cruelly wounded, but God spared his life.'
There was silence now. The priest bid Mary move from the bed, and let him approach; but, before she did so, she bent over her husband and said,—
'Have you gone to the Saviour of the world for forgiveness through His precious blood, Ambrose? He alone can forgive sins.'
'I know it! I know it!' was the reply.
But the priest interfered now.
'Withdraw, my daughter, for the end is near.'
Then Mary, bending still lower, pressed a kiss upon the forehead, where the cold dews of death were gathering, and, turning towards her boy, she said,—