"But why did she not tell me who you were?"
"Because, if you were too late—if the mischief had been done on which she deemed me bent—if your—if Solomon had come to harm, she would not have had you know that Richard Yorke—the father of your child—had blood upon his hands. Oh, mother, mother, your last thought was to keep my memory free from stain!"
He spoke no more for full a minute; no sound was heard except the distant murmur of the sea, for the day was fine and windless. The April sun shone brightly in upon the pair, as if to bless their parting.
"Where is Charley?" murmured he.
"He is gone with Agnes for a walk; they will not be long; they talked of going to the Watch Tower. You remember the old Watch Tower, Richard?"
"Well, ah, well!" answered he, smiling. "It is just twenty years ago.
How often have I thought of it!"
For a moment—before they separated forever—these two seemed to themselves to relive the youth to which another generation had succeeded.
"Agnes is a far better girl than I was, Richard; but she can not love our boy more than I loved you."
Richard answered with a smile that glorified each ghastly feature, and brought out in them a likeness to himself of old.
"She will be his good angel, Harry," whispered Richard, gravely, "and will guard him from himself. He will need her aid, but it will be sufficient. I trust, I believe, that evil is not Bred in the Bone with him, as it was with me."