was not there he was always afraid of
what might happen to the children. He had safeguarded them as far as
possible. He had engaged an older and more expensive girl, who came from
nine to six, five days a week and Saturday morning. Soon after six Winny
would be free to run in and wash the Baby and put Dossie to bed.

Shamelessly he accepted this service from her; for he was at his wits'
end. As often as not he took Violet out somewhere (to appease the
restlessness that consumed her), leaving Winny in charge of the babies.
Winny had advised it, and he had grown dependent on her judgment. He
considered that if anybody understood Violet it was Winny.

And slowly, month by month, the breach that Winny had hurled herself
into widened. It was as if she stood in it with arms stretched wide,
holding out a desperate hand to each of them.

Everything conspired to tear the two asunder. In summer the heat of the
small rooms became intolerable. Ransome proposed that he should sleep in
the back bedroom and leave more air for Violet and the children.

Violet was sullen but indifferent. "If you do," she said, "you'll take
Dossie. _I_ won't have her."

He took Dossie. The Baby was safe enough for all her dislike of it, and
for all it looked so sickly. For it slept. It slept astoundingly. It
slept all night and most of the day. There never was such a sleeper.

He thought it was a good sign. But when he said so to Winny she looked
grave, so grave that she frightened him.

Then suddenly the Baby left off sleeping. Instead of sleeping he cried.
He cried piteously, inveterately; he cried all night and most of the
day. He never gave them any peace at all. His crying woke little Dossie,
and she cried; it kept Ransome awake; it kept Violet awake, and she
cried, too, hopelessly, helplessly; she was crushed by the everlasting,
irremediable wrong.

And it was then, in those miserable days, that she turned on Winny,
until Ransome turned on her.

"It's shameful the way you treat that girl, after all she's done for
you."

"What's she been telling you?" There was fright in Violet's eyes.

"She's not told me anything. I've got eyes. I can see for myself."

"Oh, you've got eyes, have you? Jolly lot you see!"

But she was penitent that night and asked Winny to forgive her. She
implored her not to leave off coming.

And Winny came and went now in pain instead of joy. Everything in
Ranny's house pained her. Violet's voice that filled it pai