"I don't understand," she said at last. "Why can't you say what you mean?

Is there danger?"

Mrs. Wilcox looked uncomfortable. "Yes, there is some danger. But while

there is life there is--hope."

"If there is danger--" she paused, looking away toward the long highroad,

"if there is danger, I shall send for Nevill. He will come."

She telegraphed: "Baby dangerously ill. Come at once."

She waited feverishly for an answer. There was none. To the horror of the

household, she gave orders that when Captain Stanistreet called she would

see him. As she could not tear herself from the baby, there was nothing

for it but to bring Stanistreet to her.

To his intense astonishment Louis was led up into a wide bare room on the

third story: He was in that mood when we are struck with the unconscious

symbolism of things. By the high fire-guard, the walls covered with

cheerful oleographs, the toys piled in the corner, he knew that this was

the abode of innocence, a child's nursery. The place was flooded with

sunshine. A woman sat by the fire with a small yellowish bundle in her

lap. Opposite her sat Mrs. Nevill Tyson, with her eyes fixed on the

bundle. She looked up in Stanistreet's face as he came in, but held out

no hand.

"Louis," she whispered hoarsely when he was near, "where's Nevill?"

"In London."

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"Is he coming?"

"I don't know. I didn't speak to him. I--I was in a hurry."

She had turned her head. Her eyes never wandered from that small

yellowish bundle. Up to the last she had let it lie on the nurse's knee.

She had not dared to take it; perhaps she felt she was unworthy. He

followed her gaze.

"He's very ill," said she. "Look at him."

The nurse moved a fold of blanket from the child's face, and Stanistreet

gazed at Tyson's son. He tried to speak.

"Sh--sh--" whispered Mrs. Nevill Tyson. "He's sleeping."

"Dying, sir," muttered the nurse. The woman drew in her knees, tightening

her hold on the child. Her face was stained with tears. (She had loved

the baby before she loved Pinker. Remorse moved her and righteous

indignation.) Mrs. Nevill Tyson's nostrils twitched; deep black rings

were round her eyes. Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no

tears.

And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood. He

picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother's knee. All her soul

passed into the look wherewith she thanked him. Swinny, tear-stained but

inexorable, stood aloof, like rigid Justice, weighing her mistress in the

balance.

"He's dying, Molly," he said gently.

She shook her head. "No; he's not dying. God isn't cruel. He won't let

him die."




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