ubt of it, Mrs. Nevill Tyson's
behavior was that of a guilty woman--guilty in will at any rate, if not
in deed.

A shuddering whisper went through the house; it became a murmur, and the
murmur became an articulate, unmistakable voice. The servants were
sitting in judgment on her. Swinny spoke from the height of a lofty
morality; Pinker, being a footman of the world, took a humorous, not to
say cynical view, which pained Swinny. Such a view could never have been
taken by one whose affections were deeply engaged.

The conclusions arrived at in the servants' hall soon received a
remarkable confirmation.

It was on a Monday. Mrs. Nevill Tyson was seen to come down to breakfast
in an unusually cheerful frame of mind. Tyson was away; he had been up in
town for three weeks, and was expected home that evening. She looked for
letters. There were two--one from the master of the house; one also from
Stanistreet, placed undermost by the discreet Pinker. The same thoughtful
observer of character noticed that his mistress blushed and put her
letters aside instead of reading them at once. At ten Swinny came into
the breakfast-room, bearing Baby. This was the custom of the house. By
courtesy the most unnatural mother may be credited with a wish to see her
child once a day.

This morning Mrs. Nevill Tyson did not so much as raise her head. She was
sitting by the fire in her usual drooping guilty attitude. Swinny noticed
that the hearth was strewn with the fragments of torn letters. She put
the baby down on a rug by the window, and left his mother alone with him
to see what she would do.

She did nothing. Baby lay on the floor sucking his little claw-like
fingers, and stirring feebly in the sun. Mrs. Nevill Tyson continued
to gaze abstractedly at nothing. When Swinny came back after a judicious
interval, he was still lying there, and she still sitting as before. She
had not moved an inch. How did Swinny know that? Why, the tail of Mrs.
Tyson's dress was touching the exact spot on the carpet it had touched
before. (Swinny had made a note of the pattern.) And the child might have
cried himself into fits before she'd have stirred hand or foot to comfort
him. Baby found himself caught up in a rapture and strained to his
faithful Swinny's breast. Whereupon he cried. He had been happier lying
in the sun.

Swinny turned round to the motionless figure by the hearth, and held the
child well up in her arms.

"Baby thinks that his mamma wo