"The
child is dying. Come at once!" That was all, and the message was
signed Nesbit Thorne. Short, curt, peremptory, as our words are apt to
be in moments of intense emotion; a bald fact roughly stated.

For a moment Ethel Cumberland sat stunned, with pallid face and shaking
hands, from which the message slipped and fluttered to the carpet.
Then she sprang to her feet in wild excitement, an instinct aroused in
her breast which even animals know when their young are in danger.

"Cecil!" she cried, sharply, "don't you hear? My child! My baby is
dying! Why do you stand there staring at me? I must go--you must take
me to him now, this instant, or it will be too late. Don't you
understand? My darling--my boy is dying!" and she burst into a passion
of grief, wringing her hands and wailing. "Go! send for a carriage.
There's not a moment to lose. Oh, my baby!--my baby!"

"You can't go out in this storm. It's sleeting heavily, and I've been
ill. I can't let you go all that distance with only a maid, and how am
I to turn out in such weather?" objected Mr. Cumberland, who, when he
was opposed to a thing, was an adept in piling up obstacles. "I tell
you it's impossible, Ethel. It's madness, on such a night as this."

"Who cares for the storm?" raved Ethel, whose feelings, if evanescent,
were intense. "I _will_ go, Cecil! I don't want you, I'll go by
myself. Nothing shall stop me. If it stormed fire and blood I should
go all the same. I'll walk--I'll _crawl_ there, before I will stay
here and let my boy die without me. He is _my_ baby--my _own_ child, I
tell you, Cecil!--if he isn't yours."

Of this fact Cecil Cumberland needed no reminder. It was a thorn that
pricked and stung even his dull nature--for the child's father lived.
To a jealous temperament it is galling to be reminded of a predecessor
in a wife's affections, even when the grave has closed over him; if the
man still lives, it is intolerable.

He was not a brute, and he knew that he must yield to his wife's
pressure--that he had no choice but to yield; but he stood for a moment
irresolute, staring at her with lowering brows, a hearty curse on
living father and dying child slowly formulating in his breast.

As he turned to leave the room to give the necessary orders, a carriage
drove rapidly to the door and stopped, and there was a vigorous pull at
the bell. Thorne had provided against all possible delay. Then the
question arose of who shou