n the
hearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as
his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and
help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts
Baltimore's heart. The child----He had forgotten him.

"I can't make this castle," says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit of
good. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one."

"Not now," says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I want
to speak to your mother."

There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner--something strained,
and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty.
The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to the
child. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small
figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then,
putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door.

"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abrupt
entrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionate
burst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me--again?"

"There won't be many more opportunities," says he, grimly. "You may
safely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am going
abroad. At once. Forever."

In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's
self-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she
grasps hold of the back of a tall _prie-dieu_ next to her.

"Hah! I thought so--I have touched her at last, through her pride,"
thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which,
however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had
touched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he had
wounded.

"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly.

"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on
flinging it up."

"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, having
conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort.

"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It
has been growing upon me for some time--the idea of it, I mean--and last
night you brought it to perfection."

"I?"

"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me?
They"--with a sardonic smile--"are so sweet to me that I shall keep them
ripe in my memory until death overtakes me--and after it, I think! You
told me, among many oth