ino," he thought. "He's no greater than I am, after all."

Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the
darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation
failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel
it again when she knew this day's sombre and unexpected close.

"You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now.
What do we pay for him? All we've got?"

"Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some
bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby
sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty
miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And
that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the
poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the
expectation of sorrow to come.

Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the
occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they
passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast
he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle
perilously round the curves.

"Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I want to see the
baby."

"Hush!"

"I don't mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I've as much right
in him as you."

Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child's face.
"Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she could stop him he had
lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. "But he's awake!" he
exclaimed. The match went out.

"Good ickle quiet boysey, then."

Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong."

"All wrong?"

"All puckered queerly."

"Of course--with the shadows--you couldn't see him."

"Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another match. It went out
quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying.

"Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him if he cried."

"No, he's crying hard; I thought so before, and I'm certain now."

Harriet touched the child's face. It was bathed in tears. "Oh, the night
air, I suppose," she said, "or perhaps the wet of the rain."

"I say, you haven't hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything;
it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why didn't you get Perfetta to
carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It's a
marvel he understo