"She was my mother," she said, after an interval in which she seemed to be
making up her mind to give the information.

In the manifest difficulty she had in speaking, Ford sprang to her aid.

"That's like the old story of Gilbert à Becket--Thomas à Becket's father,
you know."

The historical reference was received in silence, as she bent over the
small task she had in hand.

"He married the woman who helped him out of prison," Ford went on, for her
enlightenment.

She raised her head and faced him.

"It wasn't like the story of Gilbert à Becket," she said, quietly.

It took some seconds of Ford's slow thinking to puzzle out the meaning of
this. Even then he might have pondered in vain had it not been for the
flush that gradually over-spread her features, and brought what he called
the wild glint into her eyes. When he understood, he reddened in his own
turn, making matters worse.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I never thought--"

"You needn't beg my pardon," she interrupted, speaking with a catch in her
breath. "I wanted you to know.... You've asked me so many questions that
it seemed as if I was ashamed of my father and mother when I didn't