econd time to daddy. He rose, and for a moment he and Anne
stood linked together by the body of their child.

And Peggy reiterated, "I'll be a good girl, mummy, if you'll kiss daddy."

Anne raised her face to his and closed her eyes, and Majendie felt her
soft lips touch his forehead without parting.

That night, when he refused his supper, she looked up anxiously.

"Are you not well, Walter?"

"I've got a splitting headache."

"You'd better take some anti-pyrine."

"I'm damned if I'll take any anti-pyrine."

"Well, don't, dear; but you needn't be so violent."

"I beg your pardon."

He cooled his hands against a jug of iced water, and pressed them to his
forehead.

She left her place and came and sat beside him. "Come," she said in the
sweet voice that pierced him, "come and lie down in the study." She laid
her hand on his shoulder, and he rose and followed her.

She made him lie down on the sofa in the study, and put cushions under
his head, and brought him the anti-pyrine. She sat beside him and dabbed
eau-de-cologne all over his forehead, and blew on it with her soft
breath. She paused, and sat very still, watching him, for a moment that
seemed eternity. She didn't like the flush on his cheek nor the queer
burning brilliance in his eyes. She was afraid he was in for a bad
illness, and fear made her kind.

"Tell me how you feel, dear," she said gently. She was determined to be
very gentle with him.

"Can't you see how I feel?" he answered.

She laid her firm, cool hand upon his forehead; and he gave a cry, the
low cry she had once heard and dreamed of afterwards. He flung up his
arm, and caught at her hand, and dragged it down, and held it close
against his mouth, and kissed it.

She drew in her breath. Her hand stiffened against his in her effort to
withdraw it; and when he had let it go, she turned from him and left him
without a word.

He threw himself face downwards on the cushions, wounded and ashamed.

CHAPTER XXV

It was Friday evening, the Friday that followed that Sunday when
Majendie's hope had risen at the touch of his wife's hand, and died
again under her repulse.

Friday was the day which Maggie Forrest marked in her calendar sometimes
with a query and sometimes with a cross. The query stood for "Will he
come?" The cross meant "He came." To-night there was no cross, though
Maggie had brushed her hair till it shone again, and put on her best
dress, and laid out her little