ened, as
though there were no future at all before her. She woke into misery. Her
pride would never let her show the world what she had discovered, would
force her to keep an unmoved face and live an unmoved life. But the
struggle between mother-instinct and revolt was still going on within
her. She was really afraid to see her baby, and she sent word to Betty
that she thought it would be safer if she kept quite quiet till the
afternoon.

She got up at noon and stole downstairs. She had not realized how
violent was her struggle over HIS child till she was passing the door
of the room where it was lying. If she had not been ordered to give up
nursing, that struggle would never have come. Her heart ached, but a
demon pressed her on and past the door. Downstairs she just pottered
round, dusting her china, putting in order the books which, after
house-cleaning, the maid had arranged almost too carefully, so that the
first volumes of Dickens and Thackeray followed each other on the top
shell, and the second volumes followed each other on the bottom shelf.
And all the time she thought dully: 'Why am I doing this? What do I care
how the place looks? It is not my home. It can never be my home!'

For lunch she drank some beef tea, keeping up the fiction of her
indisposition. After that, she sat down at her bureau to write.
Something must be decided! There she sat, her forehead on her hand, and
nothing came--not one word--not even the way to address him; just the
date, and that was all. At a ring of the bell she started up. She could
not see anybody! But the maid only brought a note from Aunt Rosamund,
and the dogs, who fell frantically on their mistress and instantly began
to fight for her possession. She went on her knees to separate them,
and enjoin peace and good-will, and their little avid tongues furiously
licked her cheeks. Under the eager touch of those wet tongues the band
round her brain and heart gave way; she was overwhelmed with longing for
her baby. Nearly a day since she had seen her--was it possible? Nearly
a day without sight of those solemn eyes and crinkled toes and fingers!
And followed by the dogs, she went upstairs.

The house was invisible from the music-room; and, spurred on by thought
that, until Fiorsen knew she was back, those two might be there in each
other's arms any moment of the day or night, Gyp wrote that evening:

"DEAR GUSTAV,--We are back.--GYP."

What else in the world could she say?