Tears choked her voice.  Shame had added its bitter sting to the agony of her sorrow.  Of a truth it was a terrible epilogue of misery, following on a life-story of frivolity and of heartlessness which Mistress de Chavasse had almost unconsciously related to the poor ignorant country attorney.  Desirous at all costs of retaining her freedom, she had parted from her children with a light heart, glad enough that their grandmother was willing to relieve her of all responsibility.  Time slipped by whilst she enjoyed herself, danced and flirted, gambled and played her part in that world of sport and Fashion wherein a mother’s heart was an unnecessary commodity.  Ten years are a long while in the life of an old woman who lives in a remote country town, and sees Death approaching with slow yet certain stride; but that same decade is but as a fleeting hour to the woman who is young and who lives for the moment.

The boys had been forgotten long ere they disappeared!  Forgotten? perhaps not!—­but their memory put away in a hidden cell of the mind where other inconvenient thoughts were stored:  only to be released and gazed upon when other more agreeable ones had ceased to fill the brain.

She felt humbled before this simple-minded man, whom she knew she had shocked by the recital of her callousness.  With innate gentleness of disposition he tried to hide his feelings and to set aside the subject for the moment.

“Sir Marmaduke was very disinterested, when he aided you in the quest,” he said meekly, glad to be able to praise one whom he felt it his duty to respect, “for under present circumstances ... hem! ...”

“I will raise no difficulties in Sir Marmaduke’s way,” she rejoined, “there is no doubt in my mind that my boys are dead, else I had had news of them ere this.”

He looked at her keenly—­as keenly as he dared with his mild, blue eyes.  It was hard to keep in sympathy with her.  Her moods seemed to change as she spoke of her boys and then of Sir Marmaduke.  Her last remark seemed to argue that her callousness with regard to her sons had not entirely yielded to softer emotions yet.

“In case of my Lord Northallerton’s death,” she continued lightly, “I shall not put in a claim on behalf of any son of mine.”

“Whereupon—­hem Sir Marmaduke as next-of-kin, would have the enjoyment of the revenues—­and mayhap would have influence enough then to make good his claim to the title before the House of Lords ...”

He checked himself:  looked furtively round and added: 

“Provided it please God and my Lord Protector that the House of Lords come back to Westminster by that time.”

“I thank you, master,” said Mistress de Chavasse, rising from her chair, intimating that this interview was now over, “you have told me all that I wish to know.  Let me assure you, that I will not prove ungrateful.  Your services will be amply repaid by whomever succeeds to the title and revenues of Northallerton.  Did you wish to see Sir Marmaduke?”