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| - Written for Short Stories 1899 Miss Alicia Pemberton came up the white pebbly walk, and her sister sitting on the low veranda put down her tatting' and looked up expectantly toward her. The slanting sun rays caught Miss Alicia's neatly mended silk gloves and rested squarely upon the white envelope she held. They touched more gently her withered, gentle face, as though in sympathy for her in their own going out of the day's life. There were pink and purple lights resting on the range of hills which stretched away to the right of the low cottage. The air was full of a peculiar softness, which seemed part of the settling down of evening. "The letter is for you, sister, and it is from Alan." Miss Alicia spoke with a nervous eagerness, and her hand trembled a little, "I was so glad it came," she went on. "I had asked so often at the office I was quite ashamed ; I thought the postmaster might notice, for Alan is not a good correspondent, though I am sure the dear boy does not mean to be neglectful — why, sister, what is the matter?" For the other had turned very white, and the sheet was fluttering in her hand. "What is it? Let me see!" "Alan is — oh, Alicia, he is married !" "Married!" echoed Miss Alicia, the pupils of her mild blue eyes widening and darkening. "Are you — are you sure?" "He has written it," said Miss Sara grimly, "I suppose it is true." She had recovered from her momentary agitation and turned the sheet sharply and deliberately. Miss Alicia, on the contrary, was trembling. Married yesterday,' " read Miss Sara in a thin, high voice. Rather suddenly' — I should think so — 1 know you will love my wife ; she is everything one could wish a woman to be, loving and lovable, gentle and modest, although for three years she has had to battle with the world, fighting her way ' " 'What?" cried Miss Alicia. 'Don't interrupt, please. 'She' — where was I? Oh — 'we will give ourselves the pleasure of a little visit to you, and you may expect us any day this week. Rachel sends her love. I am, dear sisters, your affectionate brother, Alan.' " There was silence for a moment. The evening breeze swayed the out-trailing tendrils of the clematis vine which clustered about the porch; a bit of it brushed Miss Sara's face. The touch of it seemed to recall her, and she folded the letter with a crackling sound. "It is just like Alan," she said. "I cannot say I am surprised. But what can he mean by the girl supporting herself? Do you suppose she was a school teacher, Alicia?" "Perhaps, or possibly she did embroidery to sell. You know, sister, that is considered quite a genteel way of earning money.. Some of the best ladies resort to it. I have often thought " She hesitated, looking uncertainly at the tatting in her sister's lap. "I do hope and pray she's respectable, and not one of those women who write on typewriters in men's offices — ^brazen creatures !" "Oh, she couldn't be that," said Miss Alicia. "I don't know what to expect of Alan," went on Miss Sara, pressing her lips sternly together; "he's been a disappointment so often." Then, with a sudden change, softening and beautifying her hard old face, "We will arrange the south room for them, Alicia. The furniture is all white but the chest of drawers, and that can be removed. I will put my screen in place of it, and the curtains are fresh, you know." "Oh, yes," returned the other eagerly. "And there is such a beautiful view from the window; it looks out on the hills, the everlasting hills," she murmured softly. "We must have plenty of flowers in the room," Miss Sara continued meditatively. "City folk always like them, and if she's been used to being shut up in a schoolroom or — or an office, they'll smell all the better. There's the bell, Alicia ; tea's ready. Louise brought in some beautiful cream while you were out." They went in to their simple meal, Miss Sara asking a blessing reverently. The white and yellow cat climbed onto the back of Miss Alicia's chair, and the canaries in the window chirped as they settled themselves in their swings to go to sleep. The white cloth was spotless, and the cluster of scarlet geraniums in the centre intensified its whiteness. The two old ladies stirred their tea and sweetened it respectively. What had they in common with the couple who, at that moment, were speeding toward them? The man, black-browed and heavy featured, had spoken with an odd, new tenderness in his voice as he settled his wife in her seat by the window. "My sisters will be sure to love you, Rachel. They are old maids and rather prim, but they have always loved me." She looked at him and smiled. That seemed easy and natural to her now. He read her thoughts in her eyes, and his heart gave an odd quiver. "I've never lived at home since I was a boy; they do not know all my wicked ways even so well as you." She smiled again and the trustfulness of her smile smote him. It is such natures as this which struggle most against the impossible, beating helpless wings against the bars of their cage. Perhaps Alan read as much in the eyes and smile* of his young wife, for he was glad of an excuse to turn away and buy some grapes of a train boy. "You have eaten nothing all day," he said as he handed them to her. She enjoyed the welcome his sisters gave her. Perhaps she, in her utterly unabashed, calm manner, wondered at Miss Alicia's trembling hands and Miss Sara's little gasp of speech in meeting their brother's wife. She could scarcely realize what an immense event this was in their lonely lives. Her own life, so used to action and experience, made her feel, in spite of her twenty-three years, an older woman than these two kindly souls. Her troubled past seemed .so entirely of another sphere than this. And the peacefulness of the little village, the quiet rest of it, came to her like an elixir of life. She took in the scent of the flowers, the color of the unsmoked clouds, the clear, untainted air as strong wine. "How could you ever leave it, Alan?" she said to her husband. He laughed. "I would not have thought you Hked stagnation, Rachel," he said. She did not answer. They were looking at the view from their window, a view stretching far out beyond the range of mountains, reaching away across the meadow lands and revealing the white line of the river. The sun going down put brilliant patches of light in the sky. Alan was restless. "We must get back in a day or two," he told Miss Sara. "Poor people can't afford long indulgences, you know," he added. And Miss Sara felt a little thrill of gladness that Alan was taking a more serious view of life. She hoped he would work harder now, with a wife for inspiration. Truth to tell, she was a trifle disappointed in his choice. For it was undeniable that she was decidedly plain. "Except her eyes," Miss Alicia interposed. They were large and clear and dark, with heavy lashes, but for the rest she was slight and pale, with a quiet manner, which, however, seemed quickened into life and being at sight of her husband. "She shows her feelings too plainly," Miss Sara could not refrain from saying. "I was always taught to avoid demonstration of any kind as much as possible, and under the circumstances it does not strike me as becoming." "I think we ought to be glad she loves Alan so much," Miss Alicia said gently. Her nature was the opposite of her sister's. The very weakness of it made up in love and charity for the keener justice and reason of the other. But she was as much shocked and startled as her sister when a glimpse into Rachel's past revealed Itself. Alan and his wife had been walking and came in late for tea. The girl looked tired. "Perhaps you are not used to much walking," said Miss Sara, as she poured the tea. "No," said Rachel, flushing a little ; "I do not walk a great deal" "Did you teach?" ventured Miss Alicia timidly. Her curiosity on this subject was very strong. "I should think you would be the kind of person to get on nicely with children." There was a moment's pause. Alan looked at his wife with an amused smile in his eyes. There was a smile on Miss Alicia's lips, but it faded utterly. "Oh, no!" Rachel spoke without any show of embarrassment. "I had a part in an opera company ; not much of a one, to be sure," she went on apologetically, "but I hoped for promotion. The manager gave me encouragement, too; but now" — ^her eyes softening and shining with immeasurable love as she turned toward Alan — "I have no such plans. We have let that all go. I used to fancy I could never give up my profession, but now it is so easy — with Alan." She had forgotten the two shocked old ladies. She had forgotten the supper table, the vicinity erf anything. Her spirit, uplifted out of the real, had taken flight into the infinitude of the ideal. She was bewildered to hear Alan's voice with his lips against her ear. "Do not mind my sisters; they are old-fashioned and not used to such things." She turned from him in astonishment to find that they were alone. Miss Alicia had fled to her own room where the tears might have uninterrupted flow. But Miss Sara had taken it as she had done the other disappointments Alan had brought to her. Standing grimly, with clenched hands and eyes looking out unseeingly, hardening her heart to meet its burden. The next was the last day of their stay, and Miss Alicia felt a certain wistfulness at their parting. Her tears had washed away any bitterness from her heart. She loved this woman because Alan had chosen her. "You must be sure to come and see us again, my dear," she said, holding Rachel's hand between her own. "And sometime maybe we can come and see how you are getting along. If you go to housekeeping I will copy my recipes for you. Alan never liked baker's bread here, and it isn't very nourishing. I do hope" — the tears coming into her eyes — "that you will be very happy. Alan has — ^well — ^maybe not always been as strict as we would like, but then, talent must be excused, and he has always been very good to us." "I am not afraid," said Rachel, looking at her husband with eyes whose faith required no knowledge nor reasoning faculty. "He has promised to be good to me," she added simply. "Please God, I will !" said Alan, with a sudden burst of half-shamed love struggling in his heart. He put his arm about her, and it was still there as they waved good-by. They settled down into their new life very naturally. Alan had a fairly good engagement with a leading publication. He had begun a good many more ambitious attempts, but they did not progress very rapidly. He had had enough praise to make him cognizant of his own ability, and he always had a feeling that he could draw upon it at any time. They had comfortable rooms, though they were small, and on the third floor. Rachel kept them spotlessly clean. She had no one to help her, but there was very little to do. She sang from the very joy of her heart as she dusted and swept. When Alan worked at all steadily he liked her to sit near him. Idle .perhaps, but where he could see her. "My best thoughts come from your face," he told her. There were moments then when life seemed unreal to her in its happiness. If there were ever others in which she missed the life she had left, her husband had no reason to suspect it. He had won her love, and she had given it to him wholly, unconstrainedly. He took that for granted, but if she was less bright than usual it irritated him. They went to the theatre sometimes when he had a little money. "Do you wish you were behind the curtain again, with the lights and the tinsel?" he said. "Not if you like me just as well without them," she answered. It was hard for her nature to take in the restlessness of his or to look back and repine. She had loved the old life, but she had loved him more. She could not imagine combining the two. Her life there was too much a thing apart. As his wife she could not think of herself before the footlights. Alan had begun a series of articles that promised well. She tried to help him with the copying and to stimulate him, for it was hard to get along, and Alan never could account for his money. Not that she asked him or showed any suspicion of distrust. Her belief in him and in his ability was perfect. "If you would only keep to it, Alan," she ventured, as he pushed aside the manuscript and reached for his hat. "You do not give enough time to it," she went on, for she felt a sudden sinking of heart at the sight of his empty chair. "I will write if you will dictate." "Don't nag at me, Rachel," said Alan, not sharply, for he was not often that. "There's nothing more disagreeable in a woman. I’ll be back directly, but don't sit up for me." She heard him run downstairs. It was just about the time he had been used to come and walk with her to the theatre. She remembered so well those walks through the noisy streets. They had been something to look forward to all day. She got up and crossed the room, pressing her forehead against the window-pane. She was not unhappy; but there was an intensity of earnestness in living which seemed almost suffocating. They had been married not quite seven months. After that night there were others when she sat up waiting for him. The dawn came stealing in while the stars were still visible. It was then that she would hear his first footstep on the stairway. Her face paled and her eyes were heavy with the weight of unshed tears. On the days following nights like these Alan would not be well enough to write, but by evening he could generally dictate any promised article. He kissed her very often on such days, and was full of a moody regret. "At least, I am better for having you, Rachel. Without you to lean on where would I be f But she drew away from him, saying, almost in a tone of fear: "Oh, but you mustn't lean on me, Alan. The body isn't the soul." Once she said, lifting a heap of manuscript in her hand : "Are we never to do anything but this machine work, Alan?" He did not answer, but putting out his hand, drew her face down to his own. He had promised to be good to her. But she wrote to his sisters, "We are very happy." They said to themselves that Alan was so much the better for his wife. "I wish her letters were a little less vague," Miss Sara said, folding one of the closely written sheets. "I cannot understand if they live in a flat, and I have never known if Rachel had good servants, though I have made a point of asking it." “She does not go much into detail," said Miss Alicia. "But she writes a great deal of Alan. I — I am so glad she does not mention the opera or — or anything of that kind. I was afraid at first she might not be domestic ; but she seems to stay very much at home." "She does not tell us everything," said Miss Sara shrewdly. "And they have never asked us to come and see them." Miss Alicia sighed. “I would be a little afraid of the journey. I am so unused to traveling, and we read of so many dreadful accidents almost every day." "I have written several times that we wished they would visit us," Miss Sara continued. "They have been married a year now, and no doubt, with the advantages Alan has given her, Rachel has improved. I would like to have them come, and we might have a few friends to meet them — ^just a little informal gathering. It would not be expensive, with only thin sliced bread and butter and cakes. Perhaps a glass of wine, though I don't know," she added, some remembrance of the past clouding her face. "I think tea with cream," said Miss Alicia softly. "I will write to-night if you like, sister." The letter lay on Alan's desk unopened. He had told Rachel that he would be away all day. He had asked her to copy a little for him. She deciphered carefully the blotted manuscript. Alan had worked more steadily of late. He had finished two articles begun some time back. They had been accepted promptly, and he put the money from them in her hand. , .1 "It is yours," he said. "You must have a new dress — something pretty — blue, or whatever suits you best ; you used to wear brighter colors, Rachel." His voice had a murmur of reproach in it. She smiled. "I am getting an old woman now, Alan," she said, and he had turned her head back and kissed her. She put the manuscript away presently, and set about preparing supper for him. There were long delicate rolls tonight. She had chosen them in place of a loaf, and she made the coflFee carefully. She laid the letter on her husband's plate smiling to herself at the small, fine writing of the address. After all, it was only a half-hour that he was late. She heard his step and ran forward. "I am so glad you are come, Alan." He came in moodily. His eyes were bloodshot, and the lower jaw dropped a little. She looked at him and was silent. He sat down and rested his face in his hands. Once she tried to draw them away, but he pushed her aside. “Have you — have you spent the money I gave you for the dress?" The words came falteringly, and he did not look at her. She crossed the room, and taking a purse out of her drawer laid it before him. "I do not need any dresses, Alan." His face unbent a little. “rm only borrowing it, understand ; ril pay it back to-morrow." He crossed the room once or twice, turning the purse over in his hand. “ Here's a letter, Alan." He took it from her and opened it, standing under the high gas jet to read the pale violet ink. Presently he put the letter down and turned to his wife. "They — my sisters — want you to come and see them, to make a visit. It's quite a godsend." “I go now? Oh, Alan!" “Why not? The truth is, Rachel, I'm in trouble. I didn't want to speak of it, but I might as well. The Press doesn't want me any longer, and Judkins says we can't hold these rooms after the first. We are behind now. So, you see " He paused. “Don't be foolish, Rachel." He did not look at her. She stood quite still, with her fingers outthrust toward him. The noise of the street came in through the open window, and a slow wind rising fluttered the pages of some manuscript on the desk. She moved mechanically, and put a paperweight upon it. The man stood irresolute, his hand on the door. He started out, and then came back. Rachel was standing where he had left her — ^by the desk. “I can't go, Alan," she said. "Oh, suit yourself," he returned fretfully. The money in his hand turned his thoughts, and he was anxious to be gone. "You're making a mistake ; but you've* made that all along." He went out. . From the window she saw his face plainly in the flare of the electric light as he crossed the street. A week later Miss Alicia had a letter from Alan. She began to read it, and then grasping it more tightly, with a little flush of excited color in her face, ran to where Miss Sara was, with Louisa's help, skimming the milk. "Why, what is the matter? Here, Louisa, take this. Alicia, what is it?" "I have a letter, and — oh, Alan has a little daughter !" cried Miss Alicia, the pink stain of color deepening in her faded cheeks. "Born the 30th, and Rachel is getting on splendidly, and they have not decided on the name. They are going to move, and — ^but you had better read it for yourself," panted Miss Alicia, stopping utterly out of breath. Miss Sara sat down and wiped her hands on her apron. Her lips made a motion as if to speak, but she took the letter without any sound issuing from them. The birds were singing outside, and a redbird, whose nest was over the porch, hopped on to the windowsill inquisitively. It seemed as though a sudden glory of light had settled upon them. There was almost a halo about Miss Alicia's head. It was but the beginning of the fervent prayers which went up to God for that new life He had seen fit to grant. How much of His tender mercy was begged for that untried soul. Perhaps Rachel, looking down at her child, in the first strange joy of her consummated womanhood, felt almost afraid to pray, to ask of God anything. The love she felt was so God-given of itself. It was a small, delicate baby, ailing most of the time, and showing no great hold on life. Alan looking at it half in awe, felt a strange sinking of heart. He could not help feeling that it would have been better if it had not come. As soon as Rachel was well they began to move. Her sickness had thrown them back, and Alan was behind in everything. He had tried to write, and though he turned out fairly good articles, and was popular, the inspiration that had been so easy failed to come. "I'm losing my grip," he said impatiently, "or my ideas are all scattered." Rachel was sympathetic, but she was not quite the same. He felt that. She had the child— her child ! They moved into smaller rooms — barer and less cheerful. There was only one window, and Alan's desk was by that. He cursed his luck. It was beastly, and the baby's crying spoiled his work. Rachel was silent, hushing the child in her arms. She was not lonely now. When Alan did not come, and it was often so, she scarcely felt it. Her child — her child! To hold the tiny form against her breast, the little wrinkled face against her own, the little hands, the feet. She had loved her husband with a strong maternal instinct of love. Then she had had no child. Alan took very little notice of his daughter. She was christened for his mother, and the christening dress and a number of little gifts had come from his sisters. Rachel looked at the sacques and tiny knit socks and smiled. How could they understand? They moved again after awhile, for the rent was not forthcoming. This time over a grocery. The smell of the decayed fruit and vegetables came up penetratingly. Rachel was not strong, and the summer had been very warm. The baby cried a great deal, and Alan did not like to have the doctor. He came in late one evening. Rachel was holding the child in her arms. Her hair lay in damp, flat curls on her forehead, and her face, with its Madonna glow upon it, was like a cameo. Alan came and sat down by her. He put his arm around her shoulders and turned her face to his. His heart misgave him as he looked into her eyes — eyes lit up with a trust and faith in the impossibilities of the future. The child in her lap stirred a little. The September air was heavy with the regret of summer. "I did not get your copy quite finished, Alan; the baby kept me so, but I will finish it to-night if you like." “Rachel," his voice sounded with a half-shamed tenderness, "don't be hurt by what I'm going to say. There's a good deal in life besides romance, you know; and ours hasn't been a very successful one." "What is it?" Her questioning eyes abashed him, and his own shifted a little. "I saw O'Neil to-day," he began, speaking rapidly, but with his arm still about her shoulders. "He needs another voice in the company. The woman who took your place has gone into a consumption ; he — he would be glad to have you back." She looked at him still questioningly, her mind in nowise grasping, as yet, his meaning. He saw it and went on desperately. "We are dreadfully in need of money, Rachel. I don't see my way at all ; if — if you could go " He stopped, the horror upon her face arrested him. It was an irritation, too. He removed his arm and got up. "Oh, don't look so shocked. It isn't as if you had never done it before," he added brutally. "But that was before Oh, Alan, how can you ask it? How could I leave my baby?" "You love the child more than you love me I I have seen that." "Oh ! I do not !" She laid the baby in its crib and came to him. Her slight figure swayed and leaned on his. Her face rested on the hands she clasped upon his shoulder. "I love her just as I love you — ^both the more because of the other. Oh, won't you understand I" He unclasped her hands, and put her from him. "I don't want to talk if you are not going to consent," he said doggedly "It's a good chance, and not hard work. You used to like it well enough ; but a woman is always contrary." There was silence for a moment. Rachel sat with her head turned from him. He took two or three turns across the floor. "I told O'Neil I'd let him know to-morrow night," he said. Then he went out. Rachel knelt down, letting her arm slip under the baby's head, for it breathed uneasily in the hot, close air. The long lashes lay on the little waxen cheeks, the pale silky hair was moist from the heat. She yielded to him as she had yielded her love. She had felt from the beginning that it would be so, even in the first horror of it. After all, the work came much more naturally and easily to her than she had thought. The familiar faces, the lights, the smell of the burnt powders. When she went to the rehearsals the kindly grocery woman's daughter looked after the baby for a small sum, and in the evenings Alan promised to see to it. It was with this promise that she had agreed. He was steadier now, and stayed at home more. He wrote one or two really good things, and he came for her regularly after the performance. The baby was a weak, gentle little thing, crying very little now, and lying for the most part very still, with large, wondering eyes, which looked as though they questioned the good of trying to make an effort here. "If we can accumulate enough," said Alan, "and get out of this wretched hole into some decent place, one of my sisters might come and stay a while. It would be such a help with the baby." But Rachel shook her head. Letters came and went less often. What indeed had she to write of to those two? She whose interests were with the noises of the street, with the saloons, the men whose faces she learned to dread. 'True, there was the child; but how could they understand the woman whose tears fell upon her baby's face, and who trembled before the awful responsibility of that tiny soul ! Miss Sara and Miss Alicia felt the estrangement and sorrowed over it. That they might not even see their brother's first born seemed a cruelty of fate. They did not know how kind a one it was that kept their simple hearts in ignorance. The months passed on, and the winter was well advanced. There were a few evenings when Alan did not come for his wife ; was out when she got home. The terror, the wretchedness of anxiety as she bent over the baby sleeping all alone in her little crib, might have stung a lower man than Alan into self-reproach. Over and over again she said to herself, "I will give it up, I will not go." But she always went. Her strength before this man, who had taken her life into his keeping, was like wax before a redhot fire. She would not have married him had it not been so. And she struggled still in her belief of and for him. There came a day — a dull, smoky one, with a misty rain falling — that the baby was ailing more than usual. The little flushed face was pitiful in its distressed expression, and shemoaned now and then. "Alan, won't you go for a doctor?" Rachel's voice was full of suppressed misery. "Won't you go?" He got up sullenly, reaching for his hat. "You fuss yourself to death over that child, Rachel." She sat holding the little form more closely, with a terrible fear gnawing at her heart. It seemed a long time before Alan came back. Then he was alone. He threw himself into a chair without looking at his wife. "He said he couldn't come. I guess he thought he wouldn't get his money. I don't look half-way respectable, that's the truth." The heavy, dissipated face, the untidy dress, the whole degradation of the soul did plainly show itself, though in that wondrous love of hers it passed the woman by. "Oh, try another. There's one not far from here on the other street." "It isn't necessary, and, besides, it isn't pleasant to be refused." Then he rose and, crossing the room to her side, touched the baby gently enough. "Don't fret so, Rachel; there isn't much the matter. I can tell that. She'll be all right by morning." The child went presently to sleep, and Alan was in a kinder vein and talked for a while, as he had been used to, in the bright, sparkling way which made his writings popular. He overruled her fears, and persuaded her not to miss her engagement that evening. It was an important one. There was a chance for promotion. "Will you go for a doctor first, Alan? I can't go unless you will." She handed him two dollars as she spoke. "You can pay him beforehand," she said. He hesitated, looking at the silver in his hand. "It isn't far," she added. He hesitated still, not looking at her ; then he got up. "All right," he said. He was not long gone. Her eyes met his and went on beyond him ; but he was alone. "He'll be here presently ; don't wait, Rachel, it's late !" "Are you sure he'll come?" "Yes, yes ; come on." She kissed the child, lingering with that terrible pain at her heart. "You'll get the medicine he prescribes at once, won't you, Alan?" "Yes; come on!" He went to the door with her. At the foot of the steps she thought she heard the baby stirring. She started with her foot on the step to go back. Then shutting her lips tightly she went on. The wind caught her cloak and swept it against her. It seemed to drive her back as she hurried on. The noises and the brawl of the streets went with her. It was later than usual before she was at liberty. Alan was not waiting for her, and a man standing under the electric light spoke to her as she passed. She did not turn her head, but her heart beat the faster. The damp wind blew against her face. It was growing colder. Back at last ! She ran upstairs. The door of the room was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in. No one ! The gas flickered and flared up. The fire was out, and the room was cold. There seemed a deadly chill in it. A heap of manuscript lay on the table ; some of the sheets had fluttered to the floor. There was a splash of ink on the table cover, and the pen was still in the bottle. Rachel's eyes seemed to gather in every detail as she stood for one moment as though paralyzed. The next she was kneeling by the little bed with a cry to God upon her lips. Was she so fast asleep— those little hands so cold? The tiny lips half in a smile, the baby eyes fast closed ! To slip so gently, so noiselessly away, facing alone the infinity ! In the silence His word had come, and the prayers that had gone up for the little life were in His mercy granted. The clocks were striking three when Rachel heard her husband's step, not dragging, nor heavy, but coming steadily. She did not move, nor cry out, nor call to him. He came in, shutting the door quickly. He was flushed and excited, but he had not been drinking. “Why, Rachel, still up? Not fretting over the child, I hope. I've good news for you." His voice had a joyous ring long unheard. She did not turn her head. He came a step nearer. "Here's money for you to make up for the two I borrowed to-night. That was a mean trick rather, but I had to do it. And now, Rachel, listen, I've a place offered me on a paper out West — one of those booming places, you know. The man read my paper in The Sun. That was a neat thing. I knew it at the time. Now, we'll get away. We'll start over again. It will be different — why, Rachel !" He started, for she had turned her face for an instant toward his. For an instant only. He came to her and looked down upon the child. Her child — and his 1
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