n of pain crosses her face, and a slight
contraction passes over her features. Evidently, she _had_ a child, and
it is _dead_. She is going to _cry_! At this awful thought, I grow
scarlet, and Algy darts a furious look at me. What _have_ I said? I have
outdone myself. How far worse a case than the fugitive wife whose
destiny I was so resolute to learn from her injured husband!

"I am so sorry," I stammer--"I never thought--I did not know--"

"It is of no consequence," she answers, speaking with some difficulty,
and with a slight but quite musical tremor in her voice--very different
from the ugly gulpings and catchings of the breath which always
set off _my_ tears--"but the fact is, that I _have_ one little
one--and--and--she no longer lives with me; my husband's people have
taken her; I am sure that they meant it for the best; only--only--I am
afraid I cannot quite manage to talk of her yet" (turning away from me,
and looking up into Algy's face with a showery smile). Then, as if
unable to run the risk of any other further shock to her feelings, she
rises and takes her leave; Algy eagerly attending her to the door.

The old deaf gentleman departs at the same time, loading Barbara with
polite parting messages to her husband, and bowing distantly to _me_.
Algy reenters presently, looking cross and ruffled.

"You really are _too_ bad, Nancy!" he says, harshly, throwing himself
into the chair lately occupied by Mrs. Huntley. "You grow worse every
day--one would think you did it on purpose--riding rough-shod over
people's feelings."

I stand aghast. Formerly, I used not to mind rough words; but I think
Roger must have spoilt me; they make me wince now.

"But--but--it was not _dead_!" I say, whimpering; "it had only gone to
visit its grandmother."

"Never you mind, my Nancy!" says Barbara, in a whisper, drawing me away
to the window, and pressing her soft, cool lips, to the flushed misery
of my cheeks; "she was not hurt a bit! her eyes were as dry as a bone!"

CHAPTER XXV.

One more day is gone. We are one day nearer Roger's return. This is the
way in which I am growing to look at the flight of time; just as, in
Dresden, I joyfully marked each sunset, as bringing me twenty-four hours
nearer home and the boys. And now the boys are within reach; at a wish I
could have them all round me; and still, in my thoughts, I hurry the
slow days, and blame them for dawdling. With all their broad, gold
sunshine, and their