“Did you tell her about Lizzie, then?” asked he, hoarse and low.

“I did; I telled her all! and she fell a-crying over my deep sorrow, and the poor wench’s sin.  And then a light comed into her face, trembling and quivering with some new glad thought; and what dost thou think it was, Will, lad?  Nay, I’ll not misdoubt but that thy heart will give thanks as mine did, afore God and His angels, for her great goodness.  That little Nanny is not her niece, she’s our Lizzie’s own child, my little grandchild.”  She could no longer restrain her tears; and they fell hot and fast, but still she looked into his face.

“Did she know it was Lizzie’s child?  I do not comprehend,” said he, flushing red.

“She knows now:  she did not at first, but took the little helpless creature in, out of her own pitiful, loving heart, guessing only that it was the child of shame; and she’s worked for it, and kept it, and tended it ever sin’ it were a mere baby, and loves it fondly.  Will! won’t you love it?” asked she, beseechingly.

He was silent for an instant; then he said, “Mother, I’ll try.  Give me time, for all these things startle me.  To think of Susan having to do with such a child!”

“Ay, Will! and to think, as may be, yet of Susan having to do with the child’s mother!  For she is tender and pitiful, and speaks hopefully of my lost one, and will try and find her for me, when she comes, as she does sometimes, to thrust money under the door, for her baby.  Think of that, Will.  Here’s Susan, good and pure as the angels in heaven, yet, like them, full of hope and mercy, and one who, like them, will rejoice over her as repents.  Will, my lad, I’m not afeard of you now; and I must speak, and you must listen.  I am your mother, and I dare to command you, because I know I am in the right, and that God is on my side.  If He should lead the poor wandering lassie to Susan’s door, and she comes back, crying and sorryful, led by that good angel to us once more, thou shalt never say a casting-up word to her about her sin, but be tender and helpful towards one ‘who was lost and is found;’ so may God’s blessing rest on thee, and so mayst thou lead Susan home as thy wife.”

She stood no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, but firm and dignified, as if the interpreter of God’s will.  Her manner was so unusual and solemn, that it overcame all Will’s pride and stubbornness.  He rose softly while she was speaking, and bent his head, as if in reverence at her words, and the solemn injunction which they conveyed.  When she had spoken, he said, in so subdued a voice that she was almost surprised at the sound, “Mother, I will.”

“I may be dead and gone; but, all the same, thou wilt take home the wandering sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead her to her Father’s house.  My lad!  I can speak no more; I’m turned very faint.”

He placed her in a chair; he ran for water.  She opened her eyes, and smiled.