“Is dead,” said Mathews.  “Yes, dead.  Godfrey you are in luck.  What a fortunate thing for us all.”

“Dead!” said the young father, laying his hand upon the cold pale cheek of his first born.  “Aye, so it is.  She was so healthy, I dared not hope for this.  Poor little pale cold thing, how happy I am to see you thus!  What a load of anxiety your death has removed from my heart!  What a blessing it would have been if it had pleased God to take them both!”

This from the man she loved—­the father of her child—­was too much.  Mary opened her large tear-swollen eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon his face.  He stooped down, and would have kissed her; but she drew back with ill-disguised horror.  The love she had so madly cherished for him was gone—­vanished for ever in those cruel words, and nought but the blank darkness and horror of remorse remained.  She turned upon her pillow, and fixing her eyes upon the dead infant, mentally swore that she would live for revenge.  She no longer shed a tear, or uttered the least complaint, but secretly blessed God that the babe was dead.  She had lived to hear the father of that child, for whose sake she had borne the contempt of her neighbors, the reproaches of conscience, and the fears of eternal punishment, rejoice in the death of his first-born; and without a tear or sigh, wish that she might share the same grave.  Could such things be?  Alas! they happen every day, and are the sure reward of guilt.

“My poor Mary,” said the hypocrite.  “You have suffered a good deal for my sake; but do not cry.  God knew best when he took the child from us.  It is painful for us to part with him, but depend upon it, he is much better off where he is.”

“I know it now,” said the young mother.  “Yes, Godfrey Hurdlestone, he is better off where he is; and for some wise end, God has spared my worthless life.  Is that you, William?  The murderer of my child has no business here.”

“Mary, it was the drink.  I did not mean to hurt either you or the child; so shake hands, and say that you forgive me.”

He leant over the bed and held out his hand.  Mary put it contemptuously aside.  “Never,” she said firmly; “neither in this world, nor in the world to come.”

“Do you know what you say?” said Mathews, bending over the pillow and doubling his fist in his sister’s face, whilst his dark grey eyes emitted a deadly light.

“I am in my senses,” returned Mary, with a bitter laugh, “although you have done your best to drive me mad.  You need not stamp your foot, nor frown, nor glare upon me like a beast of prey.  I defy your malice.  What I said I will again repeat; and may my curse and the curse of an offended God cleave to you for ever!”

“I will murder you for those words!” said the fiend, grinding his teeth.

“Death is no punishment.  Threaten me, William, with something that I fear.  I am helpless, now, but I shall soon be strong and well, and my arm may be a match for the feeble drunkard—­the cowardly destroyer of women and children.”