conscious woman was before
her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous.

Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs. Dinneford
knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter.

"Where is my baby, mother?" Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper,
leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager.

"Have you forgotten?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure.

"Forgotten what?"

"You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could
live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby--"

"What of the baby, mother?" asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently.
Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her
lips.

"What of the baby, mother?" Edith repeated the question.

"It died," said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look
at her child and utter this cruel falsehood.

"Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!"

A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes.

"I have said it, my child," was the almost stern response of Mrs.
Dinneford. "The baby is dead."

A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down until
her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her head. Thus
she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched
her without speaking.

"And what of George?" asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at
last.

Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted herself
erect.

"What of George?" she demanded.

"My poor child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine pity,
putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her bosom. "It
is more than you have strength to bear."

"You must tell me," the daughter said, disengaging herself. "I have
asked for my husband."

"Hush! You must not utter that word again;" and Mrs. Dinneford put her
fingers on Edith's lips. "The wretched man you once called by that name
is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the worst."

When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he
had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted woman,
refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock of this
terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly dethroned.

After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden sensibility.
She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the
compl