with Eve's husband grow into a very present
horror, startlingly real and distinct.

"Go on," he said at last, wearily.

"Ah, I didn't tell him, sir," she explained, misinterpreting his
silence. "I wouldn't have done that. He sore angered me, though he
may have meant well. He was set on seeing the child then, but I
wouldn't let him. It came over me after he was gone that that,
maybe, was what he came for--the child. Someone might have put him
on to take her from me--some society. Oh, I was at my wits' end,
sir! for, you see, she is all I have--all--all! Then I made up my
mind to go and see him. Bad as he is, he wouldn't have let them do
it. Oh, I would have begged and prayed to him on my knees for that."

She stopped for a moment, hectic and panting. She pressed both hands
against her breast, as though she sought composure. Then she
continued:

"It was all a mistake, you know, my being shown in there to-night! I
would never have sought her out myself, being where she is. Oh, I
have my pride! It was the servant's mistake: he took me for a
fitter, no doubt, from one of the big dressmakers. Perhaps there was
one expected, I don't know. But I didn't think of that when I came
in and found her sitting there, so proud and soft. It all came over
me--how badly he had used me, and little Meg there at home, and hard
Death coming on me--and I told her. It seemed quite natural then, as
though I had come for that, just for that and nothing else, though,
Heaven knows, it was never in my mind before. I was sorry
afterwards. Yes, before you came in with _him_ I was sorry. It wasn't
as if I owed her any grudge. How could she have known? She is an
innocent young thing, after all--younger than I ever was--for all
her fine dresses and her grand ladyish way. It was like striking a
bit of a child.... God forgive him," she added half hysterically,
"if he uses her as bad as me!"

Rainham's hand stole to his side, and for a moment he averted his
head. When he turned to her again she was uncertain whether it was
more than a pang of sharp physical pain, such as she well knew
herself, which had so suddenly blanched his lips.

"For pity's sake, girl," he whispered, "be silent."

She considered him for a moment silently in the elusive light, that
matched the mental twilight in which she viewed his mood. His
expression puzzled, evaded her; and she could not have explained the
pity which he aroused.

"I am sorry," she broke out again, moved b