"She's in the little room behind, having her breakfast," said the woman. "Ay, I s'pose I may as well."
She led the way and Mary followed her, and a minute later entered the room where Paul's mother was.
"Here's a young woman come to see you."
Paul's mother rose as the woman spoke, and looked at Mary intently.
"I've something to say to you," said Mary, "something very important."
"What is it about?"
"I'll tell you when we are alone," was Mary's reply. And then, at a nod from Paul's mother, the owner of the cottage left them together.
For a few seconds there was a silence between them, as each looked steadily at each other. In Mary's eyes were wonder and a sense of horror. She was speaking to Paul's mother, the mother of the man to whom she had given her heart. She was speaking, too, to the woman whom she believed guilty of the crime for which Paul would be again tried that day. The other met her gaze steadily, and looked at her searchingly. She seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, trying to understand her heart, for she knew, as if by instinct, who Mary was—knew that she was looking at the maid whom Paul loved. She did not know that Mary had been to see her son, knew nothing of what had passed between them, knew nothing of what Mary had confessed. For the moment she seemed to think of her only as the girl to whom Paul had given his heart.
"Do you know who I am?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I know. Why have you come here?"