own, you'll come to your right mind. And
then you'll so yearn for your little child, that
you'll feel forced to claim him, if from the
other side the world you had to make your
way to him on your knees!"

"Nurse!" the girl spoke, at once
imperiously and coaxingly. "Leave off talking
of this. It tires me, it does me harm.
And, nurse, put it away now, the child; lay
it in its cradle. I want to be close to you,
I want you to pet me this last night. Who
knows when we shall be together again?"

"Hold the child a moment then while I
go and put its things ready."

"I will not!" was the first answer,
followed by, "you can put it here." She
sat down in the chair from which the other
had risen, and let the child be laid upon
her lap.

She did not mean to look at it; but, in
her own despite, her eyes soon fixed
themselves upon the sleeping face. She touched
one of the tiny hands, and it closed upon
her finger, and that instinctive, trustful
clasp thrilled her.

"Ah, but he, too, must once have been
helpless and harmless," she thought.
"Even he must once have lain upon his
mother's knees and looked soft and sweet,
and this is his son! As well as another I
could have loved a child. How I loved
baby Wattie!"

Dreaming back upon her tender girlish
days, when that little brother had been to
her as her very own, and her all, she lifted
the sleeping child, her own little son, to her
shoulder, pressed her cheek against its
cheek, and so, gently swaying to and fro,
dreamt on, till she came, in her retrospective
dreaming, to the very last memory of
Wattie, lying by the river-bank, dead,
drowned.

Recalled to herself, to the present, she
hastily snatched the child from her shoulder,
got up from her chair, and laid the frightened,
awakened creature on the cushions.

"His son. The son of Wattie's
murderer! And I was holding it as if I loved
it. Nurse!" she called aloud. "Come and
take it. Put it out of my sight."

Nurse, who had been on the watch,
came quickly and took the child away.
When she returned: "It's not to-morrow
you go, for sure, dearie!" she said. "What
did you mean about this being the last
night?"

"Sit in the great chair again, nurse, I
want to sit by you and lay my head in
your lap. That is it. Yes, nurse, I go
tomorrow. If you look into my room you'll
see my dress laid ready. I leave all this,"
looking down at her heavy black gown,
"and everything else almost, behind me.
The dress I've put ready is Daisy
Morrison's; it was hers before she was dragged
into the pit. It was never worn by his
wife."

"And your ring, your wedding-ring. It
should be taken care of if you don't mean
to wear it. The day may come when—-"

"Good nurse, no prophesying: a little
peace. As to the ring. Take it off."

"Nay, my dear, not I!"

"You superstitious woman."

She wrenched it off herself, and threw it
in the woman's lap.

"To think," she said, " that only a few
weeks before he put that on me, I almost
fancied I loved him! Almost fancied! It
was never more than that, and I had
wholly unfancied that fancy before I was
plunged into it all—and oh, after that, how
I loathed him. Life will be hell if I can't
forget, if there's always to be the taint of
those months all about me."

Her head on the woman's knees, her
hand clasping her hand, Daisy presently
said:

"Nurse, you've never asked me to tell
you all about it."

"Dearie, I know enough," was soothingly
answered.

"You don't know enough if you don't
know all. Some one should know all.
There is no one but you, and there is no
time but to-night."

"Indeed, in one way or another I know
enough, my dear. Don't speak of it, don't
think of it, to-night."

But the woman's reluctance to hear
strengthened the girl's determination to
tell.

"You remember," she began, "he used
sometimes to row up the river to our garden
and try to tempt Wattie into his boat. One
evening—it was very soon after that other
you spoke of went away—that other—other,
indeed!" Here she seemed to fall into a
dream, but soon rousing herself went on.
"One evening he was there, and Wattie
was in his boat before I knew. 'Come,
sister Daisy, we're waiting for you,' my
darling called to me. I wouldn't trust him
alone. I couldn't bear to make him get
out. Graham promised to bring us back
in half an hour. I got in. We never came
back. He murdered Wattie, and did worse
by me. That devil's cunning—you start
to hear me say that bad word! You goose
of a nurse, if you only knew what sort of