he child
... my child...."

The low voice gave out the words distinctly and without passion, as of
one repeating what was told to him. Rid of fear Louis slapped him on the
shoulder and shook him, laughing into his astonished face when sense
came back to him.

"It's like a scene, or a skene from Macbeth," he said. "Say, Artie, you
had better make open confession of your sins. Why should you want to
kill her, and put the trail of blood over it all?"

"I said that, did I?" He thought a moment, then put his arms about
Louis. They were sitting on the side of the bed.

"You must know it sometime, Louis. It is only for your ear now. I had a
wife ... she was worthless ... she lives ... that is all."

"And your child? you spoke of a child?"

Arthur shook with a chill and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"No," he groaned, "no ... thank God for that ... I had no child."

After a little they went back to bed, and Louis made light of everything
with stories of his own sleep-walking until he fell asleep again. The
candle was left burning. Misfortune rose and sat looking at the boy
curiously. With the luck of the average man, he might have been father
to a boy like this, a girl like Mona with beautiful hair and a golden
heart, soft sweet babies like the Trumps. He leaned over and studied the
sleeping face, so sweetly mournful, so like death, yet more spiritual,
for the soul was there still. In this face the senses had lost their
daylight influence, had withdrawn into the shadows; and now the light of
innocence, the light of a beautiful soul, the light that never was on
land or sea, shone out of the still features. A feeling which had never
touched his nature before took fierce possession of him, and shook him
as a tiger shakes his prey. He had to writhe in silence, to beat his
head with his hands, to stifle words of rage and hate and despair. At
last exhausted he resigned himself, he took the boy's hand in his,
remembering that this innocent heart loved him, and fell into a
dreamless sleep.

The charm and the pain of mystery hung about the new life, attracting
him, yet baffling him at every step. He could not fathom or grasp the
people with whom he lived intimately, they seemed beyond him, and yet he
dared ask no questions, dared not go even to Monsignor for explanations.
With the prelate his relations had to take that character which suited
their individual standing. When etiquette allowed him to visit the
rector, Monsi