No one knows what I know about it." Mark shook his head.
"Could I not write to him?
He knows me as well as he knows his own father." Grace shook her head, and pressed her hand upon her heart, where Tom's belt lay.
"Do you think, madam, that after having had the dream of this belt, the shape of this belt, and of the money which is in it, branded into my brain for months--years it seems like--by God's fire of shame and suspicion;--and seen him poor, miserable, fretful, unbelieving, for the want of it--O God! I can't tell even your sweet face all .-- Do you think that now I have it in my hands, I can part with it, or rest, till it is in his?
No, not though I walk barefoot after him to the ends of the earth." "Let his father have the money, then, and do you take him the belt as a token, if you must--" "That's it, Mary!" shouted Mark Armsworth, "you always come in with the right hint, girl!" and the two, combining their forces, at last talked poor Grace over.

But upon going out herself she was bent.

To ask his forgiveness in her mother's name, was her one fixed idea.

He might die, and not know all, not have forgiven all, and go she must.
"But it is a thousand to one against your seeing him.

We, even, don't know exactly where he is gone." Grace shuddered a moment; and then recovered her calmness.
"I did not expect this: but be it so.