ne had hoped that the birth of her infant might effect some
favorable change in her husband's conduct. But here again she was open
to a new disappointment. "He hated girls," he said. "If it had been a
fine boy, it would not have been so bad."

Pauline sighed, and as she pressed her darling to her heart, thanked
God in silence that it was not a son, who might by a possibility
resemble his father.

The child was a delicate infant from its birth; and whether it was the
constant sound of its little wailing cries, or that Wentworth was
jealous of the mother's passionate devotion to the little creature, or
perhaps something of both, but he fairly seemed to hate it as the
months went on. But rude and even brutal though he might be, he could
not rob Pauline of the happiness of her deep love. She turned
resolutely from her husband to her child. What comfort earth had left
for her, she would take there.

The long summer months and the infant pined away, and the beautiful
mother seemed wasting with it. Mr. and Mrs. Grey were out of town for
a few weeks, during which the child became alarmingly low. The
physician gave Pauline little hope. It was too weak to be removed for
change of air. Nature might rally, but nothing more could be done for
it. Pauline attempted to detain her husband by her side, but he shook
her rudely off, saying, "Nonsense, you are always fancying the brat
ill!" and the young mother was left desolate by the little bed of her
dying baby.

We will pass over those hours of agony, for there are no words that
can describe them; but by midnight its young spirit had winged its
flight to Heaven, and the heart-broken mother wept over it in an
anguish few even of parents ever knew.

"That's Mr. Wentworth's step," said the nurse in a low voice to her,
as he passed the nursery door. "Shall I go to him, ma'am?"

"No," said Pauline, "I will go. Do you stay here." And rising firmly,
she went to her husband's room.

He was lying dressed on the bed as she approached. She laid her hand
on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked stupidly at her. She
told him their child was dead--and he laughed a stupid, brutal
laugh--the laugh of intoxication.

Pauline shuddered from head to foot, and returned to the bed of her
dead child; and when Mr. and Mrs. Grey, who had been sent for, arrived
in the morning; they found her as she had lain all night, her arms
clasped round the infant, and moaning wildly, as one who has no hope