"God knows he told me we were so, and I believed him," answered Rose.
"He made believe marry you, then, did he?" asked the childish old lady. "He did that to a great many women, I believe. Gentlemen often do such things, so they tell me. Your child is of course illegitimate then."
Rose's lips moved, but no answer came.
"And what do you intend to do with him, child?"
"Bring him up to despise the sin of which his father was guilty," replied Rose, boldly.
"Oh yes, that's all very proper; but if you give him to me, there will be no occasion ever to mention it at all, or you either, child."
"Madame," said Rose, with a proud dignity. "Is it a mother who speaks to a mother such words as these? You love your son none the less that he made my name a reproach and a by-word, crimsoned my innocent cheek with shame, dimmed my eyes with unavailing tears. Shall I, think you, love my son the less that your son deserted him? Shall I love my son the less that through days and nights of tearful anguish his smile, his love, was all of heaven I ever dared to look for?"
"Oh, certainly not—oh, of course not," replied the old lady, nervously; "but you know he may not always love you as well as he does now, when he knows—"
"In God I put my trust;" said Rose, as tears streamed from her eyes.
"Well, don't cry, child—don't cry. I hate to see people cry. All I wanted to say was, that you would always be a drag on him, if he tried to rise in the world; but don't cry. It is right for you to trust in God, every body ought to be pious, it is so respectable. I have been confirmed myself; but don't cry, it will spoil your handsome eyes. You are young yet, perhaps somebody may marry you, if you keep quiet about this."