is your home?"

"I have none. I am a waif drifting from city to city, on the
uncertain waves of chance."

"Have you no relatives?"

"Only an uncle, somewhere in the gold mines of California."

"Does General Laurance provide for your maintenance?"

"Three years ago his agent offered me a passage to San Francisco, and
five thousand dollars, on condition that I withdrew all claim to my
husband and to his name, and pledged myself to 'give the Laurances no
further trouble.' Had I been a man, I would have strangled him. Since
then no communication of any kind has passed between us, except that
all my letters to Cuthbert pleading for his child have been returned
without comment."

"How, then are you and the babe supported?"

"That, sir, is my secret."

She drew herself haughtily to her full height, and would have passed
him, but he placed himself between her and the door.

"Mrs. Laurance, do not be offended by my friendly frankness. You are
so young and so beautiful, and the circumstances of your life render
you so peculiarly liable to dangerous associations and influences,
that I fear you may----"

"Fear nothing for me. Can I forget my helpless baby, whose sole dower
just now promises to be her mother's spotless name? Blushing for her
father's perfidy, she shall never need a purer, whiter shield than
her mother's stainless record--so help me, God!"

"Will you do me the favour to put aside for future contingencies this
small tribute to your child? The amount is not so large that you
should hesitate to receive it; and feeling a deep interest in your
poor little babe, it will give me sincere pleasure to know that you
accept it for her sake, as a memento of one who will always be glad
to hear from you, and to aid you if possible."

With evident embarrassment he tendered an old-fashioned purse of
knitted silk, through whose meshes gleamed the sheen of gold pieces.
To his astonishment she covered her face with her hands and burst
into a fit of passionate weeping. For some seconds she sobbed aloud,
leaving him in painful uncertainty concerning the nature of her
emotion.

"Oh, sir!--it has been so long since words of sympathy and real
kindness were spoken to me, that now they unnerve me. I am strong
against calumny and injustice,--but kindness breaks me down. I thank
you in my baby's name, but we cannot take your money. Ministers are
never oppressed with riches, and baby and I can live without charity.
But since you