"No," he answered, "there was no use of going."

A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she could question
him further, he spoke again.

"Mother, let us go into the house. I'm cold and tired; I want to sit in
your old rocking-chair, where I can rest my head. Then I'll tell you
everything; I wish I had an easier task!"

She noticed that his steps were weak and slow, felt that his hands were
like ice, and saw his blue lips and chattering teeth. She removed the
strange cloak, placed her chair in front of the fire, seated him in it,
and then knelt upon the floor to draw off his stiff, sodden top-boots.
He was passive as a child in her hands. Her care for him overcame all
other dread, and not until she had placed his feet upon a stool, in the
full warmth of the blaze, given him a glass of hot wine and lavender,
and placed a pillow under his head, did she sit down at his side to hear
the story.

"I thought of this, last night," he said, with a faint smile; "not that
I ever expected to see it. The man was right; it's a mercy of God that I
ever got out alive!"

"Then be grateful to God, my boy!" she replied, "and let me be grateful,
too. It will balance misfortune,--for that there it misfortune in store
for us. I see plainly."

Gilbert then spoke. The narrative was long and painful, and he told it
wearily and brokenly, yet with entire truth, disguising nothing of the
evil that had come upon them. His mother sat beside him, pale, stony,