“Nothing, my dear boy! you were always good and tender-hearted, and deserved the love of every body.”

“It is not common,” said Edmund, “for a parent to hate his first-born son without his having deserved it.”

“That is true,” said Oswald; “it is uncommon, it is unnatural; nay, I am of opinion it is almost impossible.  I am so convinced of this truth, that I believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund, cannot be his father.”  In saying this, he observed her countenance attentively; she changed colour apparently.  “Come,” said he, “let us sit down; and do you, Margery, answer to what I have said.”

“Blessed Virgin!” said Margery, “what does your reverence mean? what do you suspect?”

“I suspect,” said he, “that Edmund is not the son of Andrew your husband.”

“Lord bless me!” said she, “what is it you do suspect?”

“Do not evade my question, woman!  I am come here by authority to examine you upon this point.”

The woman trembled every joint.  “Would to Heaven!” said she, “that Andrew was at home!”

“It is much better as it is,” said Oswald; “you are the person we are to examine.”

“Oh, father,” said she, “do you think that I—­ that I—­ that I am to blame in this matter? what have I done?”

“Do you, sir,” said he, “ask your own questions.”

Upon this, Edmund threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees.  “O my mother!” said he, “for as such my heart owns you, tell me for the love of Heaven! tell me, who was my father?”

“Gracious Heaven!” said she, “what will become of me?”

“Woman!” said Oswald, “confess the truth, or you shall be compelled to do it; by whom had you this youth?”

“Who, I?” said she; “I had him!  No, father, I am not guilty of the black crime of adultery; God, He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the mother of such a sweet youth as that is.”

“You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his father?”

“Oh, what shall I do?” said Margery; “Andrew will be the death of me!”

“No, he shall not,” said Edmund; “you shall be protected and rewarded for the discovery.”

“Goody,” said Oswald, “confess the whole truth, and I will protect you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund’s fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all you know, and nobody will thank you for it.”

“Ah,” said she, “but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund; and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him again.”

“He knows it then?” said Oswald.

“He know it!  Lord help you, it was all his own doing.”

“Tell us then,” said Oswald; “for Andrew shall never know it, till it is out of his power to punish you.”