"To be plain, then," said Winifred, "he has asked me whether I have any objection to you as a mother."
"And what—what was your answer?" demanded the widow, eagerly.
"Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. "That he couldn't choose any one so agreeable to me."
"Winifred," said Mrs. Sheppard, after a brief pause, during which she appeared overcome by her feelings,—she said, gently disengaging herself from the young girl's embrace, and speaking in a firm voice, "you must dissuade your father from this step."
"How?" exclaimed the other. "Can you not love him?"
"Love him!" echoed the widow. "The feeling is dead within my breast. My only love is for my poor lost son. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do."
"Your esteem is all he will require," urged Winifred.
"He has it, and will ever have it," replied Mrs. Sheppard, passionately,—"he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife—far less his wife. Winifred, you are deceived in me. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. No—no, it must never be."
"You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Sheppard," rejoined Winifred kindly. "Your faults were the faults of circumstances."
"Palliate them as you may," replied the widow, gravely, "they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again."