ever do? He is known
only as a selfish millionaire who thinks more of horses than of men."

Carelessly Mrs. Vanderpool threw the paper to the floor and bit her lips
as the angry blood dyed her face.

"They _shall_ confirm him," she whispered, "if I have to mortgage my
immortal soul!" And she rang up long distance on the telephone.

_Thirty-one_

A PARTING OF WAYS

"Was the child born dead?"

"Worse than dead!"

Somehow, somewhere, Mary Cresswell had heard these words; long, long,
ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter agony, where
Earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeating
them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning. Long she had
wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves,
and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thing
clear--to understand.

"Was the child born dead?"

"Worse than dead!"

Then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than death? She
had tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed her like a child
each day and left her lying there. Today she was stronger, and for the
first time sitting up, looking listlessly out across the world--a queer
world. Why had they not let her see the child--just one look at its
little dead face? That would have been something. And again, as the
doctor cheerily turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. He
looked at her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly:

"There, now; you've been dreaming. You must rest quietly now." And with
a nod he passed into the other room to talk with her husband.

She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell Harry
to ask him--she did not often see her husband, but she must ask him now
and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. A
moment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. From the
other side the words came distinctly and clearly:

"--other children, doctor?"

"You must have no other children, Mr. Cresswell."

"Why?"

"Because the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the
third and fourth generation."

Slowly, softly, she crept away. Her mind seemed very clear. And she
began a long journey to reach her window and chair--a long, long
journey; but at last she sank into the chair again and sat dry-eyed,
wondering who had conceived this world and made it, and why.

A long time afterward she found herself lying in bed, aw