Mamma's time has come. Slowly she wipes away an imaginary tear, softly she draws her chair yet nearer Leslie, gently she begins.

"Leschen, my poor girl, don't think _us_ guilty of stealing your little one; don't. When you came here that night, I thought you were wild. But now,--since you have been sick--something has happened."

She paused to note the effect of her words, but Leslie sat quite still, with her hands tightly locked together.

"Something has happened?" she echoed coldly. "I felt sure it would; go on."

"It isn't what you think, my girl. We haven't found your little dear; but there is a person--"

"Go on," commanded Leslie: "straight to the point. _Go on!_"

"A person who _might_ find the child, if--"

"If he or she were sufficiently rewarded," supplied Leslie. "Quick; tell me, what must Daisy's ransom be?"

Mamma's pulse beats high, her breath comes fast and loud. It is not in her nature to trifle with words now. She leans forward and breathes one word into Leslie's ear.

"_Yourself._"

"Myself!" Leslie gasps and her brain reels. "_Myself!_" she controls her agitation, and asks fiercely: "Woman, what do you dare to say?"

"Only this," Mamma continues, very firmly and with the tiger look dawning in her eye. "You have no money, but you have beauty, and that is much to a man. Will you marry the man who will find your little girl?"

In spite of her weakness, Leslie springs up and stands above Mamma, a fierce light blazing in her eyes.

"Woman, _answer me_!" she cries fiercely; "do you know where that child is?"

"I? Oh, no, my dear."

"Is there another, a man, who knows?"

Slowly Mamma rises, and the two face each other with set features.

"There is a man," says Mamma, swaying her body slightly as she speaks, and almost intoning her words--"There is a man who swears he can find the child, but he will not make any other terms than these. He will not see you at all until you have agreed to his demands. You will marry him, and sign a paper giving him a right to a portion of your fortune, in case you should make up your mind to claim it. You may leave him after the ceremony, if you will; you need not see him again; but you must swear never to betray him or us, and never to tell how you found the child."

Into Leslie's face creeps a look of intense loathing. All her courageous soul seems aroused into fearless action. Her scornful eyes fairly burn into the old woman's face.

"So," she says, low and slowly, "I have found you out at last." And then the weak body refuses to support the dauntless spirit.

She sinks back upon her chair, her form shaking, her face ghastly, her hands falling weakly as they will. But as Mamma comes forward, the strong spirit for a moment masters the weak body.

"Don't touch me," she almost hisses, "or, weak as I am, I might murder you! wait."

And Mamma stands aloof, waiting. Not while Leslie thinks--there is no confusion of mind--only until the bodily tremor ceases, until the nerves grow calmer, until she has herself once more under control. She does not attempt to rise again. She reclines in her easy chair, and looks at her adversary unflinchingly.

"At last," she says, after favoring Mamma with a long look of scorn; "at last you show yourself in your true character. Your own hand pulls off your hypocrite's mask. Woman, you were never so acceptable to me as at this moment. It simplifies everything."

"You must not think--" begins Mamma. But Leslie checks her.

"Stop!" she says imperiously. "Don't waste words. We have wasted too many, and too much time. I desire you to repeat your proposition, to name your terms again. No more whining, no more lies, if you want me to listen. You are my enemy; speak as my enemy. Once more, your terms for Daisy's ransom."

And Mamma, too wise to err in this particular, abandons her _role_ of injured affection. Dropping her mantle of hypocrisy, not without a sense of relief, she repeats her former proposal, clearly, curtly, brutally, leaving no room for doubt as to her precise meaning.

Leslie listens in cold silence and desperate calm. Then, as Mamma ceases, she sits, still calm, cold and silent, looking straight before her. At last she speaks.

"This person," she says slowly; "this man who can find Daisy if he will--may I not see him?"

"When you have given your promise; not before."

"He will accept no other terms?"

"Never."

"And this transaction, this infamy--he leaves all details to you?"

"Just so."

"Then there is no more to be said. I might hope for mercy from the beasts of the field, but not from you."

"You consent?"

"If I refuse, what will be the consequences to Daisy?"

"You had better not refuse!" retorts Mamma, with a glare of rage.

Before Leslie's mind comes the picture of little Daisy, and following it a panorama of horrors. Again she feels her strength deserting her.

"Wait," she whispers with her last fragment of self-command. "Leave me to myself. Before sunset you shall have my answer."

Further words are useless. Mamma, seeing this, turns slowly away, saying only, as she pauses at the door:

"Don't waste your time; _delays are dangerous_."

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A PROMISE RETRACTED.

Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with misery--had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her, she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth still, and bidden her descend into it.

Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror?

Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.

Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair, had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.