She was dead, but I had her honour to think of.

Should it be said she had a murderer for her son?
In the height of my inner conflict, I had almost cried aloud the fierce denial which would arise at this thought.

But ere the word could leave my lips, such a vision rose before me of a bewildering young face with wonderful eyes and a smile too innocent for guile and too loving for hypocrisy, that I forgot my late antagonistic feelings, forgot the claims of my dear, dead mother, and even those of my own future.

Such passion and such devotion merited consideration from the man who had called them forth.

I would not slight the claims of my dead mother but I would give this young girl a chance for her life.