“Marching quickly towards Elizabeth, who had arisen on seeing him, my husband snatched the child from her before I could seize it, and with a violent blow on the chest felled me to the ground, where I lay helpless, speechless.  With reeling senses I heard Elizabeth cry out that it was her own child, and call upon her husband to save it.  Richard Nutter paused, but re-assured by a laugh of disbelief from his ruffianly follower, he told Elizabeth the pitiful excuse would not avail to save the brat.  And then I saw a weapon gleam—­there was a feeble piteous cry—­a cry that might have moved a demon—­but it did not move him.  With wicked words and blood-imbrued hands he cast the body on the fire.  The horrid sight was too much for me, and I became senseless.”

“A dreadful tale, indeed, madam!” cried Alizon, frozen with horror.

“The crime was hidden—­hidden from the eyes of men, but mark the retribution that followed,” said Mistress Nutter; her eyes sparkling with vindictive joy.  “Of the two murderers both perished miserably.  John Device was drowned in a moss-pool.  Richard Nutter’s end was terrible, sharpened by the pangs of remorse, and marked by frightful suffering.  But another dark event preceded his death, which may have laid a crime the more on his already heavily-burdened soul.  Edward Braddyll, the object of his jealousy and hate, suddenly sickened of a malady so strange and fearful, that all who saw him affirmed it the result of witchcraft.  None thought of my husband’s agency in the dark affair except myself; but knowing he had held many secret conferences about the time with Mother Chattox, I more than suspected him.  The sick man died; and from that hour Richard Nutter knew no rest.  Ever on horseback, or fiercely carousing, he sought in vain to stifle remorse.  Visions scared him by night, and vague fears pursued him by day.  He would start at shadows, and talk wildly.  To me his whole demeanour was altered; and he strove by every means in his power to win my love.  But he could not give me back the treasure he had taken.  He could not bring to life my murdered babe.  Like his victim, he fell ill on a sudden, and of a strange and terrible sickness.  I saw he could not recover, and therefore tended him carefully.  He died; and I shed no tear.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Alizon, “though guilty, I cannot but compassionate him.”

“You are right to do so, Alizon,” said Mistress Nutter, rising, while the young girl rose too; “for he was your father.”

“My father!” she exclaimed, in amazement.  “Then you are my mother?”

“I am—­I am,” replied Mistress Nutter, straining her to her bosom.  “Oh, my child!—­my dear child!” she cried.  “The voice of nature from the first pleaded eloquently in your behalf, and I should have been deaf to all impulses of affection if I had not listened to the call.  I now trace in every feature the lineaments of the babe I thought lost for ever.  All is clear to me.  The exclamation of Elizabeth