“No, no; it is not that, Charles,” answered the girl, hastily.  “You know I have no pleasure equal to that of being with you; but I don’t like your mother’s looks; she had such a strange air, and spoke so differently from her usual way.  I really scarcely like to leave her.”

“My dear Agnes, you don’t know my mother,” returned Charles, laughing.  “One would sometimes think she had all the care of the world upon her shoulders when every thing is going as smooth as oil.  You don’t appreciate the grave responsibility of taking furnished lodgings for a week certain.  Come along, you little goose.”  And, drawing her still hesitating arm within his own, he marched away with her.

Yet Agnes had reason for what she said; and Charles, somewhat selfish as he was, would have foregone his flirtation and remained by his mother’s side had he seen her the moment after the house door had shut her in.

With a throbbing heart, and a face as white as the handkerchief she passed over her damp brow, she leaned against the wall of the passage, ere, with trembling steps, she approached the open parlor door.  An aged woman stood in the centre of the room, with hair as white as snow, but with a figure straight as a poplar, and drawn up rigidly to its full height.

“Why do you come back again?” cried she, in accents soft as milk, yet bitter as gall.  “Why do you cross my threshold, you false witch, when there is nothing more to blight and blast?  Did you think I should not know you, that you dared to come?  I should know you among all the fair-faced fiends in hell.”

“Mercy, mercy, Mrs. Yorke!” cried Harry, feebly; and she fell upon her knees, and made as though she would have clasped the other’s garments with her stretched-out arms.

“Don’t touch me, lest I strike you,” answered the old woman, fiercely, “as, nineteen years ago, I would have struck you on your cruel lips, and spoiled the beauty that was the ruin of my boy!  May you have sons to perish through false wantons, and to pine in prison!  May you be desolate, and without heart or hope, as I am!  Go, devil, go, and rid me of your hateful presence!”

“Hear me, hear me, Mrs. Yorke!” pleaded the other, with clasped hands.  “Strike me, spit upon me, if you will, but only hear me!  Abject as I look, wretched as I feel—­as I knew I must needs look and feel—­I have longed for this hour to come, as my boy longs for his bridal morning!”

“May he wake the next to find his bride a corpse; or, better still, to find her false, like you.”

“I am not false; I never was; Heaven knows it!” cried Harry, passionately.  “I do not blame you for your bitter words.  I have earned your curses, though I meant to earn your blessing.”

“My blessing!” Contempt and hatred struggled for the mastery in her tone.  “Richard, Richard! in your chains and toil, do you hear this?  This woman meant to earn my blessing!”