"I am so miserable," said Mariana, moistening a towel to remove the traces of milk that she had upset upon her wrapper. "What can we do?"

With a feverish gesture she brushed her heavy and disordered hair from her brow and shook her head helplessly. "Monday is the first of June,"

she added.

Anthony listened almost stolidly. When he spoke there was a dogged decision in his voice. "The money must be had," he answered. "G.o.d knows, I believe I'd steal it if I'd half a chance!"

"Then we'd all go to prison," remarked Mariana, ruefully, as she measured the coffee into the coffee-pot.

Algarcife smiled with a quick sense of humor. "At any rate, a livelihood would be insured," he returned. "Honest industry is the only thing that goes a-begging in this philanthropic century." Then, as Mariana returned to the baby, he drank his coffee in silence and went out. As a beginning, he secured an order to write hygienic articles for a Sunday newspaper. Then he called upon Father Speares and found that he was out of town, and even in his desperation was conscious of a sensation of relief at the thought that Father Speares was beyond appeal. But the sensation was reactionary, and, upon consulting the weather bulletin and finding that a change in temperature was expected, he wrote a letter, which he left at the clergyman's house.

"How is Isolde?" he asked of Mariana an hour later.

Mariana smiled and raised her finger warningly. "Much brighter to-day,"

she answered, "and sleeping sweetly."

Anthony bent over the crib, holding his breath as he watched the child.

He noticed that she looked thinner; the blue veins showed in a delicate tracery upon the forehead, and the crease around the tiny wrists was less deep.

Mariana, serious and careworn, leaned upon the opposite side.

"What do you think?" she whispered.

"Only a little pale," he replied; "all children are when teething, I suppose."

They went into the next room and sat down, leaving the door ajar.

"The doctor was here again," began Mariana, playing with the folds of her gown. "June is the dangerous month--he says so."

Algarcife raised his eyes and looked at her.

"I wrote to Father Speares to-day," he said.

For a moment Mariana was silent, a flush rising to her brow. Then she rose and came over to his side, putting her arms about his neck.

"My poor love," she murmured. Anthony drew her down upon the sofa beside him.

"It was tough," he said, slowly, "but--how I hate to tell you, Mariana!--there is something else."

Mariana flinched sharply.

"Surely he has not refused?" she exclaimed.

"He is away, but the College has given me notice."

Mariana did not answer, but she grew white and her lips trembled. Then she flung her arms out upon the sofa and laid her head upon them. Her sobs came short and fast.

"Mariana!"

She lifted her head and choked back her tears, sitting cold and stiff beside him.

"If it were only ourselves," she said; "but the baby--what will become of the baby?"

There was a strained note of cheerfulness in Algarcife's voice.

"Don't cry," he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder. "I must get the money. Father Speares will lend it to me. We will pull through all right, never fear."

Mariana rested her head upon his arm and looked up at him.

"How ill you look!" she said. "My poor boy!"

Then the baby cried, and she went back to it. As Algarcife rose from the sofa, he was seized with a sudden swimming in his head, and, to steady himself, leaned against the mantel. The objects in the room seemed to whirl in a tangle before him, and his vision was obscured by a vaporous fog, while a tumultuous ringing sounded in his ears. But in a moment it pa.s.sed, and he was himself again.

"Biliousness," he remarked, and started out in search of stray journalistic work. He found it easier to obtain than he had supposed, and, with his usual precision of method, calculated that by working fifteen hours a day he might, provided the supply of work continued, make up the amount which he would lose with the loss of the Bodley College.

After a week of such work, he became optimistic in mind and correspondingly depressed in body. "If my brains didn't get so sluggish," he said to Mariana, "the work would be nothing; but caffeine will remedy that." And he returned to the use of the drug, silencing Mariana's remonstrances with a laugh.

"My dear girl, if I didn't take something to keep me awake, I'd fall asleep in my chair at ten o'clock, and the subscribers to the evening issue would never learn the hygienic value of regular hours and a sufficient amount of recreation."

"But you will wreck yourself," urged Mariana.

"Nonsense. This caffeine is going to take Isolde and yourself to the country."

"And you?"

"I--oh, don't worry about me! I am all right."

And he would begin work with a pretence of alacrity, keeping to it until drowsiness warned him of physical exhaustion, when he would pause, stretch himself, measure his dose of caffeine, and, lifting his pen, dog away until past midnight.

It was an afternoon shortly after this that Mariana came to him flushed and expectant.

"Signor Morani sent for me," she explained. "I left Isolde with a daughter of the laundress and went. He has offered me an engagement in a comic opera."

Algarcife started and looked up.

"It seems that the manager heard me sing one day when I was at my lesson. He liked my dramatic power, Signor Morani says. At any rate, one of his troupe has given out, and he offers me the part."

"But, Mariana--"

Mariana did not look at him, but went rapidly on, as if waiving possible objections.

"We need the money. It might take Isolde away--and it is a chance. I am so young, you see--and--"

"Mariana!" cried Algarcife, sharply. There was a note in his voice which caused her to shrink away as if he had struck her. "Mariana," he put out his hand in protest, "you shall not do it. I will not let you. I could not bear it."

Mariana tapped her foot upon the floor impatiently. "I believe it is a child's part," she said.

"You shall not do it," he said, pa.s.sionately.

Mariana turned her eyes upon him.