gners, and I hate monks; so you may imagine for yourself the
way in which I looked upon him. No doubt he had a hand in the plot that
has ended so miserably for me and mine, so fortunately for you.

"My Brian was nursed by our gardener's wife, a young Italian woman
called Vincenza, whose child was about the age of mine. I saw Vincenza's
child several times. Its eyes were brown (like yours); my baby's eyes
were blue. It was when they were both about two months old that I was
seized with a malarious fever, then very prevalent. They kept the
children away from me for months. At last I insisted upon seeing them.
The baby had been ill, they told me; I must be prepared for a great
change in him. Even then my heart misgave me, I knew not why.

"Vincenza brought a child and laid it in my lap, I looked at it, and
then I looked at her. She was deadly white, and her eyes were red with
tears. I did not know why. Of course I see now that she had enough of
the mother's heart in her to be loath to give up her child. For it was
her child that she had placed upon my knee. I knew it from the very
first.

"'Take this child away and give me my own,' I said. 'This is not mine.'

"The woman threw up her hands and ran out of the room. I thought she had
gone to fetch my baby, and I remained with her child--a puny, crying
thing--upon my knees. But she did not return. Presently my husband came
in, and I appealed to him. 'Tell Vincenza to take her wretched, little
baby away,' I said. 'I want my own. This is her child; not mine.'

"My husband looked at me, pityingly, as it seemed to my eyes. Suddenly
the truth burst upon me. I sprang to my feet and threw the baby away
from me upon the bed. 'My child is dead,' I cried. 'Tell me the truth;
my child is dead.' And then I knew no more for days and weeks.

"When I recovered, I found, to my utter horror, that Vincenza and her
child had not left the house. My words had been taken for the ravings of
a mad woman. Every one believed the story of this wicked Italian woman
who declared that it was her child who had died, mine that had lived! I
knew better. Could I be mistaken in the features of my own child? Had my
Brian those great, dark, brown eyes? I saw how it was. The Italians had
plotted to put their child in my Brian's place; they had forgotten that
a mother's instinct would know her own amongst a thousand. I accused
them openly of their wickedness; and, in spite of their tears and
protestations, I