It was her turn now to speak humbly, almost apologetically, whilst her
eyes sought those of the simple little attorney, trying to read approval
in his glance, or at any rate an absence of reproof. He was shaking his
head, sighing with visible embarrassment the while. In his innermost
soul, he could find no excuse for the frivolous mother, anxious to avoid
the responsibilities which the Lord Himself had put upon her: anxious to
be rid of her children in order that she might pursue with greater
freedom and ease that life of enjoyment and thoughtlessness which she
craved.

"My mother was a strange woman," continued Mistress de Chavasse
earnestly and placing her small white hand on the black sleeve of the
attorney, "she cared little enough for me, and not at all for London
and for society. She did not understand the many duties that devolve on
a woman of fashion.... And I was that in those days! ... twenty years
ago!"

"Ah! Truly! truly!" sighed Master Skyffington.

"Mayhap she acted according to her own lights.... After some years she
became a convert to that strange new faith ... of the people who call
themselves 'Friends' ... who salute no one with the hat, and who talk so
strangely, saying: 'thee' and 'thou' even when addressing their betters.
One George Fox had a great hold on her. He was quite a youth then, but
she thought him a saint. 'Tis he, methinks, poisoned her mind against
me, and caused her to curse me on her deathbed."

She gave a little shudder--of superstition, perhaps. The maternal
curse--she felt--was mayhap bearing fruit after all. Master
Skyffington's watery eyes expressed gentle sympathy. His calling had