"Come, let us go in," he said in a broken voice.
Mrs. Ritson rose from her seat and went down on her knees. Her eyes, still wet, but no longer weeping, were raised to heaven.
"Almighty Father, give me strength!" she said beneath her breath, and then more quietly she rose to her feet.
Paul regarded her with increasing perturbation. Something even more serious than he yet knew of was amiss. Hardly knowing why, his heart sunk still deeper.
"What are we doing?" he said, scarcely realizing his own words.
Mrs. Ritson threw herself on his neck.
"Did I not say there was a terrible reason why your father should make a will?"
Paul's voice seemed to die within him.
"What is it, mother?" he asked feebly, not yet gathering the meaning of his fears.
"God knows, I never dreamed it would be my lips that must tell you," said Mrs. Ritson. "Paul, my son, my darling son, you think me a good mother and a pure woman. I am neither. I must confess all—now—and to you. Oh, how your love will turn from me!"