came of my baby, father? Can you tell me?"

"It died, Edith dear. We know that," returned her father, trying to
speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed itself.

"Do you know it?" she asked, rising and confronting her father.

"I didn't actually see it die. But--but--"

"You know no more about it than I do," said Edith; "if you did, you
might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am left
to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me, if
you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason."

"If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will," answered Mr.
Dinneford, in a distressed voice.

"If I were to shut myself up and do nothing," said Edith, with greater
calmness, "I would be in a madhouse before a week went by. My safety
lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It
has taken such possession of me that nothing but certainty can give me
rest. Will you help me?"

"How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery."

"Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of what
became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing
be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible thing--and I
lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a
dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their
cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to save! If I only knew that
he was dead! If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over
it!"

Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs
to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of
life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts.

There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that smote
painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly:

"What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being done?
You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I
was told that it was dead."

"Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little
grandson! Oh, father!"

"But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how
impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets
herself to do a thing."

"Even if it be murder!" said Edith, in a hoarse whisper.

"Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so," returned the agitated
father.

A