Lord Chetwynde did so. He sat in a chair by the bedside, and held her hand. Mrs. Hart lay for a moment looking at him with an earnest and inexplicable gaze.
"Oh!" she moaned, "my boy--my little Guy! can you bear what I am going to say? Bear it! Be merciful! I am dying now. I must tell it before I go. You will be merciful, will you not, my boy?"
"Do not talk so," faltered Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion.
"Oh, my boy!" said Mrs. Hart, "do you know--have you ever heard any thing about--your--your mother?"
"My mother?"
"Yes."
"No; nothing except that she died when I was an infant."
"Oh, my boy! she did not die, though death would have been a blessing."
A thrill passed through Lord Chetwynde.
"Nurse! nurse!" he cried--"my dear old nurse, what is it that you mean? My mother? She did not die? Is she alive? In the name of God, tell me all!"