gasp she opens her eyes. Has she been asleep? No,
but the organ has stopped and is rumbling down the street, followed by a
crowd of small boys and girls, whose ears are not sensitive to the
quality of music.

[Illustration: "A WHITE, WILD-LOOKING FACE."]

She rises. Her knees are shaking as she drags herself painfully across
the room, catching a glimpse of a white, wild-looking face in the tall
pier-glass as she clutches the handle of the door, and then the sight of
the empty hat-rack in the hall, the absence of coat and stick, or
fragrant whiff of cigar, bring the irrevocableness of the parting home
to her more vividly than anything--more than the few words of farewell,
the cold handshake, and the slam of the hall door half-an-hour ago. "Was
it only half-an-hour?" she murmurs, staring stupidly at the clock; "it
seems an eternity! And now he is going farther and farther from me,
never to return--never to tease, and praise and love me, for (she sobs)
he did love me once, in spite of everything--never to laugh at me and
call me 'little woman'--never to hold my hand or ask my help again! He
is thinking of his wasted life and love; yes, he will believe he has
wasted it on _me_. He is thinking of our little child--he did not bid
him good-bye--how could he bear to?" Ah! there is still something left
for her to love; but what is left for him? And with bitter tears she
remembers how quietly he gave the child up to her, and how she accepted
the sacrifice as a matter of course, though she knew what it cost him.

[Illustration: "THE NURSERY IS EMPTY."]

With beating heart she goes upstairs. The cosy, pretty nursery is empty.
The nurse has taken the child to Kensington Gardens as usual. She passes
on into their bedroom. It is still in disorder, and she has not the
heart to put it straight, though she feels that a little occupation
would do her good. The sun shines warmly into the room, but she shivers.

There is nothing but loneliness in the house, and that she cannot bear,
for it brings thoughts, and she dares not think.

Hardly knowing what she does, she finds and puts on her hat and gloves,
and turns to go, but, at the very threshold, she stumbles over
something--why, it is the little silver match-box he always uses--and
loses. She must take it to him--then she remembers, and, oh! strange
woman, covers it with tears and kisses. She hurries down the stairs, and
out of the house, and a long way down the street before she know