“I fear me his lordship will be disappointed,” she rejoined, quite heedless of the little attorney’s perturbation, “and that under these circumstances Sir Marmaduke will surely succeed.”

“I was about to remark,” he rejoined, “that now, with my lord’s help—­his wealth and influence ... now, that is, ... that he has interested himself in the matter ... hem ... we might make fresh inquiries ... that is ... er ...”

“It will be useless, master.  I have done all that is humanly possible.  I loved my boys dearly—­and it was because of my love for them that I placed them under my mother’s care....  I loved them, you understand, but I was living in a gay world in London ... my husband was dead ...  I could do naught for their comfort....  I thought it would be best for them ...”

It was her turn now to speak humbly, almost apologetically, whilst her eyes sought those of the simple little attorney, trying to read approval in his glance, or at any rate an absence of reproof.  He was shaking his head, sighing with visible embarrassment the while.  In his innermost soul, he could find no excuse for the frivolous mother, anxious to avoid the responsibilities which the Lord Himself had put upon her:  anxious to be rid of her children in order that she might pursue with greater freedom and ease that life of enjoyment and thoughtlessness which she craved.

“My mother was a strange woman,” continued Mistress de Chavasse earnestly and placing her small white hand on the black sleeve of the attorney, “she cared little enough for me, and not at all for London and for society.  She did not understand the many duties that devolve on a woman of fashion....  And I was that in those days! ... twenty years ago!”

“Ah!  Truly! truly!” sighed Master Skyffington.

“Mayhap she acted according to her own lights....  After some years she became a convert to that strange new faith ... of the people who call themselves ‘Friends’ ... who salute no one with the hat, and who talk so strangely, saying:  ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ even when addressing their betters.  One George Fox had a great hold on her.  He was quite a youth then, but she thought him a saint.  ’Tis he, methinks, poisoned her mind against me, and caused her to curse me on her deathbed.”

She gave a little shudder—­of superstition, perhaps.  The maternal curse—­she felt—­was mayhap bearing fruit after all.  Master Skyffington’s watery eyes expressed gentle sympathy.  His calling had taught him many of the hidden secrets of human nature and of Life:  he guessed that the time—­if not already here—­was nigh at hand, when this unfortunate woman would realize the emptiness of her life, and would begin to reap the bitter harvest of the barren seeds which she had sown.