"Then, madame," he said, with deep emotion, pointing to the grave and touching her arm, "what was he to you?" She looked him fairly in the face from streaming eyes.
"He was my son! It cannot harm him now. Alas, poor Cambia!"
"Your son!" The man gazed about him bewildered. "Your son, madame? You are mistaken! It cannot be!"
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "how little you know. It can be—it is true!"
"It cannot be; it cannot be!" the words of the horrified man were now a whisper.
"Do you think a mother does not know her offspring? Your talk is idle; Gerald Morgan was my son. I have known, John Morgan knew——"
"But Rita," he said, piteously.
"Ah, Rita, poor Rita, she could not know!"
The manner, the words, the tone overwhelmed him. He turned to Mary for help in his despair. Almost without sound she had sunk to the grass and now lay extended at full length. With a fierce exclamation Edward rushed to her and lifted the little figure in his arms. Cambia was at his side.
"What is this? What was she to him?" some explanation was necessary and Edward's presence of mind returned.