on Rosie's comfortable back a look of
black hate and fury. Then the Nurse gave him a gentle shove, and he
was looking at Claribel--a white, Madonna-faced Claribel, lying now
with closed eyes, her long lashes sweeping her cheek.

The girl did not open her eyes at his entrance. He put his hat
awkwardly on the foot of the bed, and, tiptoeing around, sat on the
edge of the stiff chair.

"Well, how are you, kid?" he asked, with affected ease.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. Then she made a little clutch
at her throat, as if she were smothering.

"How did you--how did you know I was here?"

"Saw it in the paper, in the society column." She winced at that,
and some fleeting sense of what was fitting came to his aid. "How
are you?" he asked more gently. He had expected a flood of
reproaches, and he was magnanimous in his relief.

"I've been pretty bad; I'm better."

"Oh, you'll be around soon, and going to dances again. The Maginnis
Social Club's having a dance Saturday night in Mason's Hall."

The girl did not reply. She was wrestling with a problem that is as
old as the ages, although she did not know it--why this tragedy of
hers should not be his. She lay with her hands crossed quietly on
her breast and one of the loosened yellow braids was near his hand.
He picked it up and ran it through his fingers.

"Hasn't hurt your looks any," he said awkwardly. "You're looking
pretty good."

With a jerk of her head she pulled the braid out of his fingers.

"Don't," she said and fell to staring at the ceiling, where she had
written her problem.

"How's the--how's the kid?"--after a moment.

"I don't know--or care."

There was nothing strange to Al in this frame of mind. Neither did
he know or care.

"What are you goin' to do with it?"

"Kill it!"

Al considered this a moment. Things were bad enough now, without
Claribel murdering the child and making things worse.

"I wouldn't do that," he said soothingly. "You can put it somewhere,
can't you? Maybe Rosie'll know."

"I don't want it to live."

For the first time he realised her despair. She turned on him her
tormented eyes, and he quailed.

"I'll find a place for it, kid," he said. "It's mine, too. I guess
I'm it, all right."

"Yours!" She half rose on her elbow, weak as she was. "Yours! Didn't
you throw me over when you found I was going to have it? Yours! Did
you go through hell for twenty-four hours to bring it into the
world? I tell you, it's