hroad,
"if there _is_ danger, I shall send for Nevill. He will come."

She telegraphed: "Baby dangerously ill. Come at once."

She waited feverishly for an answer. There was none. To the horror of the
household, she gave orders that when Captain Stanistreet called she would
see him. As she could not tear herself from the baby, there was nothing
for it but to bring Stanistreet to her.

To his intense astonishment Louis was led up into a wide bare room on the
third story: He was in that mood when we are struck with the unconscious
symbolism of things. By the high fire-guard, the walls covered with
cheerful oleographs, the toys piled in the corner, he knew that this was
the abode of innocence, a child's nursery. The place was flooded with
sunshine. A woman sat by the fire with a small yellowish bundle in her
lap. Opposite her sat Mrs. Nevill Tyson, with her eyes fixed on the
bundle. She looked up in Stanistreet's face as he came in, but held out
no hand.

"Louis," she whispered hoarsely when he was near, "where's Nevill?"

"In London."

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"Is he coming?"

"I don't know. I didn't speak to him. I--I was in a hurry."

She had turned her head. Her eyes never wandered from that small
yellowish bundle. Up to the last she had let it lie on the nurse's knee.
She had not dared to take it; perhaps she felt she was unworthy. He
followed her gaze.

"He's very ill," said she. "Look at him."

The nurse moved a fold of blanket from the child's face, and Stanistreet
gazed at Tyson's son. He tried to speak.

"Sh--sh--" whispered Mrs. Nevill Tyson. "He's sleeping."

"Dying, sir," muttered the nurse. The woman drew in her knees, tightening
her hold on the child. Her face was stained with tears. (She had loved
the baby before she loved Pinker. Remorse moved her and righteous
indignation.) Mrs. Nevill Tyson's nostrils twitched; deep black rings
were round her eyes. Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no
tears.

And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood. He
picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother's knee. All her soul
passed into the look wherewith she thanked him. Swinny, tear-stained but
inexorable, stood aloof, like rigid Justice, weighing her mistress in the
balance.

"He's dying, Molly," he said gently.

She shook her head. "No; he's not dying. God isn't cruel. He won't let
him die."

She turned the child's face to her breast, hoping perhap