Her mind was intent on hard facts, the dismal probabilities of the near future.
'If he had died upon the passage home!' she repeated.

'Would to God that he had so died, and that my son's name and fortune could be saved.' The innocent child who had never given her an hour's care; the one creature she loved with all the strength of her proud nature--his future was to be blighted by his father's misdoings-overshadowed by shame and dishonour in the very dawn of life.

It was a wicked wish--an unnatural wish to find room in a woman's breast; but the wish was there.

Would to God he had died before the ship touched an English port.
But he was living, and would have to face his accusers--and she, his wife, must give him all the help she could.
She sat long by the waning fire.

She took nothing but a cup of tea, although the landlady had sent in substantial accompaniments to the tea-tray in the shape of broiled ham, new-laid eggs, and hot cakes, arguing that a traveller on such a night must be hungry, albeit disinclined for a ceremonious dinner.