"You mean that he is broken-hearted?"

With a deep breath he answered, "To listen to him you would think he was cheerful enough."

"And little Katherine?"

"She is well too. I did not see her awake. It was late, and she was in her cradle. So rosy, and fresh, and beautiful!"

"My sweet darling! She was clean too? They take care of her, don't they?"

"More care they could not take."

"My darling baby! Has she grown?"

"Yes; they talk of taking her out of the long clothes soon. Nancy is like a second mother to her."

Kate's foot was beating the floor. "Oh, why can't her own mother----"

she began, and then in a faltering voice, "but that cannot be, I suppose.... Do her eyes change? Are they still blue? But she was asleep, you say. My dear baby! Was it very late? Nine o'clock? Just nine? I was thinking of her at that moment. It is true I am always thinking of her, but I remember, because the clock was striking. 'She will be in her little cot now,' I thought, 'bathed and clean, and so pretty in her nightdress, the one with the frill!' My sweet, sweet angel!"

Her speech was confused and broken. "Do you think if I never see her until... Will I know her if... It's useless to think of that, though.

Is her hair like... What is the colour of her hair, Philip?"

"Fair, quite fair; as fair as mine was----"

She swirled round, came face to face with him, and cried, "Philip, Philip, why can't I have my darling to myself? She would be well enough here. I could keep her quiet. Oh, she would not disturb you. And I should be so happy with my little Kate for company. The time is long with me sometimes, Philip, and I could play with her all the day. And then at night, when she would be in the cot, I could make her little stock of clothes--her frocks and her little pinafores, and----"

"Impossible, Kate, impossible!" said Philip.

She turned to the window. "Yes," she said, in a choking voice, "I suppose it would even be stealing to fetch her away now. Only think! A mother stealing her own child! O gracious heaven, have I sinned myself so far from my innocent baby! My child, my child! My little Katherine!"

Her bosom heaved, and she said in a hard tone, "I daresay they think I'm a bad mother because I left her to others to nurse her and to love her, to see her every day and all day, to bathe her sweet body, and to comb her yellow hair, to look into her little blue eyes, and to watch all her pretty, pretty ways--Oh, yes, yes." she said, with increasing emotion, "I daresay they think that of me."

"They think nothing but what is good of you, Kate--nothing but what is good and kind."

She looked out on the rain which fell unceasingly, and said in a low voice, "Is Pete still telling the same story--that I am only away for a little while--that I am coming back?"

"He is writing letters to himself now, and saying they come from you."

"From me?"

"Such simple things--all in his own way--full of love and happiness--_I am so happy and comfortable_--it is pitiful. He is like a child--he never suspects anything. You are better and enjoying yourself and looking forward to coming home soon. Sending kisses and presents for the baby, too, and greetings for everybody. There are messages for me also.

_Your true and loving wife_--it is terrible."

She covered her face with both hands. "And is he telling everybody?"

"Yes; that's what the letters are meant for. He thinks he is keeping your name sweet and your place clean, so that you may return at any time, and scandal may not touch you."

"Oh, why do you tell me that, Philip? It is dragging me back. And the child is dragging me back also... Does he show the letters to you?"

"Worse than that, Kate--much worse--he makes me answer them. I answered one the other night. Oh, when I think of it! _Dear wife, glad to get your welcome letters_. G.o.d knows how I held the pen--I was giddy enough to drop it. He gave you all the news--about your father, and Grannie, and everybody. All in his own bright way--poor old Pete, the cheeriest, sunniest soul alive. _The Dempster is putting a sight on us regular--trusts you are the better for leaving home_. It was awful--awful! _Dearest Kirry, I'm missing you mortal--worse than Kimberley. So come home soon, my true lil wife, to your foolish ould husband, for his heart is losing him._"

He leapt up, and began to tramp the floor. "But why do I tell you this?

I should bear my own burdens."

Her hands had come down from her face, which was full of a great compa.s.sion. "And did _you_ have to write all that?" she asked.

"Oh, he meant no harm. He had no thought of hurting anybody! He never dreamt that every word was burning and blistering me to the heart of hearts."

His voice deepened, and his face grew hard and ugly. "But it was the same as if some devil out of h.e.l.l had entered into the man and told him how to torture me--as if the cruellest tyrant on earth had made me take up the pen and write down my own death-warrant. I could have killed him--I could not help it--yes, I felt at that moment as if---- Oh, what am I saying?"

He stopped, sat on the end of the bed again, and held his head between his hands.

She came and sat by his side. "Philip," she said, "I am ruining you.

Yes, I am corrupting you. I who would have had you so high and pure--and you so pure-minded--I am bringing you to ruin. Having me here is destroying you, Philip. No one visits you now. You are shutting the door on everybody.... I heard you come in last night, Philip. I hear you every night. Yes, I know everything. Oh, you will end by hating me--I know you will. Why don't you send me away? It will be better to send me away in time, Philip. Besides, it will make no difference. We are in the same house, yet we never meet. Send me away now, before it is too late."

He dropped his hand and felt for her hand; he was trying not to look into her face. "We have both suffered, Kate. We can never hate one another--we have suffered for each other's sake."

She clung tightly to the hand he gave her, and said, "Then you will never forsake me, whatever happens?"

"Never, Kate, never," he answered; and with a smothered cry she threw her arms about his neck.

The rain continued to pour down on the roofs and on the tombs with a monotonous plash. "But what is to be done?" she said.

"G.o.d knows," he answered.

"What is to become of us, Philip? Are we never to smile on each other again? We cannot carry a burden like this for ever. To-day, to-morrow, the next day, the next year--is it to go on like this for a lifetime? Is this life? Is there nothing that will end it?"

"Yes, Kate, yes; there is one thing that will end it--one thing only."

"Do you mean--_death?_"

He did not answer. She rose slowly from his side and returned to the window, rested her forehead against the pane, and looked down on the desolate churchyard and the s.e.xton at his work in the rain. Suddenly she broke the silence. "Philip," she said, "I know now what we ought to do.

I wonder we have never thought of it before."

"What is it?" he asked.

She was standing in front of him. Her breath came quickly. "Tell Pete that I am dead."

"No, no, no."

She took both his hands. "Yes, yes," she said.

He kept his face away from her. "Kate, what are you saying?"

"What is more natural, Philip? Only think--if you had been anybody else, it would have come to that already. You must have hated me for dragging you down into this mire of deceit, you must have forsaken me, and I must have gone to wreck and ruin. Oh, I see it all--just as if it had really happened. A solitary room somewhere--alone--sinking--dying--unknown, unnamed--forgotten----"

His eyes were wandering about the room. "It will kill him. If his heart can break, it will break it," he said.

"He has lived after a heavier blow than that, Philip. Do you think he is not suffering? For all his bright ways and hopeful talk and the letters and the presents, do you think he is not suffering?"