 23 What's that? It was Mr. Rathbone who first found his voice. To what estate have I come when, in every woman's face, even in hers, who is dearest, I see expressions I no longer understand, and, in every child's voice, catch the sound of Gwendolyn's. Harry's voice is not Gwendolyn's, came a desperate protest from the ready widow, a daring assertion for her to make to him, who had often held this child in his arms for hours together. You are not yourself. Justin. I am sorry. I— She almost gave her promise. Almost she risked her future, possibly his, by saying under the stress of her fears what her heart did not prompt her to, when—a quick move on her part, a low cry on his—and he came rushing up the steps. I had advanced at her hesitating words and shown myself. When Mr. Rathbone was well up the terrace, he hardly honored me with a look as he went by. I slowly began my descent to where she stood, with her back toward me and her arms thrown round the child she had evidently called to her, in her anxiety to conceal the little beaming face from this new intruder. She had not looked as high as my face, I felt assured, that she would not show me hers unless I forced her to, seemed equally certain. Every step I took downward was consequently of moment to me. I wondered how I should come out of this. What would she do? What I myself should say? The bold course commended itself to me. No more circumlocation, no more doubtful playing of the game with this woman. I would take the bull by the horns and—I had reached the step on which she crouched. I could catch sight of the child's eyes over her shoulder, a shoulder that quivered. Was it with the storm of the last interview, or with her fear of this? I would see. Pausing I said to her with every appearance of respect, but in my most matter of fact tones, Mrs. Carew, may I request you to send Gwendolyn down to the girl I see below there? I have something to say to you before you leave. Gwendolyn? With a start which showed how completely she was taken by surprise, Mrs. Carew rose. She may have recognized my voice, and she may not. It is hard to decide in such an actress. Whether she did or not, she turned with a frown, which gave way to a ravishing smile as her eyes met my face. You, she said, and without any betrayal in her voice or gesture, that she recognized that her hopes, and those of the friend to whose safety she had already sacrificed so much, had just received their death-blow. She gave a quick order to the girl, who, taken the child by the hand, sat down on the steps Mrs. Carew now quitted, and laid herself out to be amusing. Gravely Mrs. Carew confronted me on the terrace below. Explain, she said. I have just come from Mrs. Ocampa, I replied. The veiled head dropped a trifle. She could not sustain herself, so all is lost? That depends, but I must request you not to leave the country till Mr. Ocampa returns. The flash of her eyes startled me. Who can detain me? she cried, if I wish to go. I did not answer in kind. I had no wish to rouse this woman's opposition. I do not think you will want to go when you remember Mrs. Ocampa's condition. Would you leave her to bear the full burden of this deception alone? She is a broken woman. Her full story is known to me. I have the profoundest sympathy for her. She has only three days in which to decide upon her course. I have advised her to tell the whole truth to her husband. You! But the word was but a breath. But I heard it, yet I felt no resentment against this woman. No one could under the spell of so much spirit and grace. Did I not advise her right? Perhaps, but you must not detain me. You must do nothing to separate me from this child. I will not bear it. I have experienced for days now what motherhood might be, and nothing on earth shall rob me of my present rights in this child. Then as she met my unmoved countenance. If you know Mrs. Ocampa's whole story, you know that neither she nor her husband has any real claim on the child. In that you are mistaken, I quickly protested. Six years of care and affection such as they have bestowed on Gwendolyn to say nothing of the substantial form which these have taken from the first constitute a claim which all the world must recognize if you do not. Think of Mr. Ocampa's belief in her relation to him. Think of the shock which awaits him when he learns that she is not of his blood and lineage. I know, I know. Her fingers worked nervously. The woman was showing through the actress. But I will not give up the child, ask anything but that. Madam, I have had the honor so far to make but one requirement that you do not carry the child out of the country yet. As I uttered this ultimatum some influence acting equally upon both caused us to turn in the direction of the river, possibly an apprehension lest some word of this conversation might be overheard by the child or the nurse. A surprise awaited us which effectually prevented Mrs. Carew's reply. In the corner of the Ocampa grounds stood a man staring with all his eyes at the so-called little Harry. An expression of doubt was on his face. I knew the minute to be critical and was determined to make the most of it. Do you know that man, I whispered to Mrs. Carew? The answer was brief but suggestive of alarm. Yes, one of the gardeners over there, one of whom Gwendolyn is especially fond. She's the one to fear, then, engage his attention while I divert hers. All this in a whisper while the man was summoning up courage to speak. A pretty child, he stammered as Mrs. Carew advanced toward him smiling. Is that your little nephew I've heard them tell about? Seems to me he looks like our own little lost one, only darker and sturdier. Much sturdier I heard her say as I made haste to accost the child. Harry, I cried, recalling my old address when I was in training for a gentleman. Your aunt is in a hurry. The cars are coming, don't you hear the whistle? Will you trust yourself to me? Let me carry you, I mean. Pick a back, while we run for the train. The sweet eyes looked up. It was fortunate for Mrs. Carew that no one but myself had ever gotten near enough to see those eyes, or she could hardly have kept her secret. And at first slowly, then with instinctive trust, the little arms rose and I caught her to my breast, taking care as I did so to turn her quite away from the man whom Mrs. Carew was about leaving. Come, I shouted back, we shall be late, and made a dash for the gate. Mrs. Carew joined me and none of us said anything till we reached the station platform. Then as I set the child down I gave her one look. She was beaming with gratitude. That saved us together with the few words I could edge in between his loud regrets at my going and his exclamations over the grief of Gwendolyn's loss. On the train I shall fear nothing. If you will lift him up I will wrap him in this shawl as if he were ill. Once in New York are you not going to permit me? To go to New York yes, but not to the steamer. She showed anger, but she also showed admirable self-control. Far off we could catch the sounding thrill of the approaching train. I yield, she announced suddenly, and opening the bag at her side she fumbled in it for a card which she presently put in my hand. I was going there for lunch, she explained. Now I will take a room and remain there until I hear from you. Here she gave me a quick look. You do not appear satisfied? Yes, yes, I stammered as I looked at the card and saw her name over that of an inconspicuous hotel in the downtown portion of New York City. I merely—the train. The nearing of the train gave me the opportunity of cutting short the sentence I should have found it difficult to finish. Here is the child, I exclaimed, lifting the little one, whom she immediately enveloped in a light but ample wrap she had chosen as a disguise. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, I like you. Your arms are strong and you don't shake me when you run. Mrs. Carew smiled. There was deep emotion in her face. Au revoir! she murmured, in a tone implying promise. Happily I understood the French phrase. I bowed and drew back. Was I wrong in letting her slip from my surveillance? The agitation I probably showed might have caused her some thought. But she would have been more than a diviner of mysteries to have understood its cause. Her bag, when she opened it before my eyes, revealed among its contents a string of remarkable corals. A bead similar in shape, color and marking, rested at that very moment over my own heart. Was that necklace one bead short? With the start of conviction I began to believe so, and that I was the man who could complete it. If that was so, why then, then? It isn't often that a detective's brain reels, but mine did then. The train began to move. This discovery, the greatest of all, if I were right, would. I had no more time to think. Instinctively, with a quick jump, I made my place good on the rear car. End of Chapter 23. Chapter 24 of The Millionaire Baby. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Millionaire Baby by Anna K. Green, Chapter 24. Shall I give him my word, Harry? I did not go all the way to New York on the train which Mrs. Carew and the child had taken. I went only as far as Yonkers. When I reached Dr. Poole's house I thought it entirely empty. Even the office seemed closed. But appearances here could not always be trusted, and I rang the bell with a vigor which must have awakened echoes in the inhabited upper portions. I know that it brought the doctor to the door and in a state of doubtful amiability. But when he saw who awaited him his appearance changed and he welcomed me in with a smile or what was as nearly like one as his austere nature would permit. How, now, want your money? Seems to me you have earned it with unexpected ease. Not such great ease, I replied, as he carefully closed the door and locked it. I know that I feel as tired as I ever did in my life. The child is in New York under the guardianship of a woman who is really fond of her. You can dismiss all Care concerning her. I see, and who is the woman? Name her. You do not trust me, I see. I trust no one in business matters. This is not a business matter, yet. What do you mean? I have not asked for money. I am not going to until I can perfectly satisfy you that all deception is at an end, so far as Mr. Ocampa at least is concerned. Oh! you would play fair, I see. I was too interested in noting how each of his hands involuntarily closed on itself, in his relief at not being called upon to part with some of his hoardings, to answer with ought but a nod. You have your reasons for keeping close, of course, he growled, as he led me toward the basement stairs. You're not out of the woods, is that it? Or has the great lady bargained with you? Hum? He threw the latter ejaculations back over his shoulder as he descended to the office. This displeased me, and I made no attempt to reply. In fact, I had no reply ready. Had I bargained with Mrs. Ocampa? Hardly. Yet. She is handsome enough, the old man broke in sharply, cutting in two myself communings. You're a fellow of some stamina, if you have got at her secret without making her a promise. So the child is well, that's good. There's one long black mark eliminated from my account. But I have not closed the book, and I am not going to, till my conscience has nothing more to regret. It is not enough that the child is handed over to a different life. The fortunes that have been bequeathed to her must be given to him, who would have inherited them had this child not been taken for a veritable Ocampa. That raises a nice point, I said. That one that will drag all false things to light. Your action in the matter along with the rest, I suggested. True. But do you think I stopped because of that? He did not look as if he would stop because of anything. Do you not think Mrs. Ocampa worthy of some pity? Her future is a ghastly one whichever way you look at it. She sinned was his uncompromising reply. The wages of sin is death. But such death I protested, death of the heart, which is the worst death of all. He shrugged his shoulders leading the way into the office. Let her beware, he went on surlyly. Last month I saw my duty no further than the exaction of this child's dismissal from the home whose benefits she enjoyed under a false name. Today I am led further by the inexorable guide which prompts the anxious soul. All that was wrong must be made good. Mr. Ocampa must know on whom his affections have been lavished. I will not yield. The woman has done wrong and she shall suffer for it till she rises, a redeemed soul into a state of mind that prefers humiliation to a continuance in a life of deception. You may tell her what I say, that is, if you enjoy the right of conversation with her. The look he shot me at this was keen as hate and spite could make it. I was glad that we were by this time in the office and that I could avoid his eye by a quick look about the well-remembered place. This proof of the vindictive pursuit he had marked out for himself was no surprise to me. I expected no less, yet it opened up difficulties which made my way, as well as hers, looked dreary in the prospect. He perceived my despondency and smiled, then suddenly changed his tone. You do not ask after the little patience I have here. Come, Harry, come. Here is someone I would like you to meet. The door of my old room swung open and I do not know which surprised me more. The kindness in that rugged old voice that I had never before heard lifted in tenderness, or the look of confidence and joy on the face of the little boy who now came running in, so inexorable to a remorseful and suffering woman, and so full of consideration for a stranger's child. Almost well pronounced the doctor and lifted him on his knee. Do you know this child's parentage and condition, he sharply inquired, with a quick look toward me? I saw no reason for not telling the truth. He is an orphan and was destined for an institution. You know this? Positively. Then I shall keep the child. Harry, will you stay with me? To my amazement the little arms crept around his neck. A smile grim enough in my estimation, but not at all frightful to a child, responded to this appeal. I did not like the old man and woman, he said. Dr. Poole's whole manner showed triumph. I shall treat him better than I did you, he remarked. I am a regenerate man now. I bowed. I was very uneasy. There was a question I wanted to ask, and could not in the presence of this child. He is hardly of an age to take my place, I observed, still under the spell of my surprise, for the child was handling the old man's long beard, and seeming almost as happy as Gwendolyn did in Mrs. Carew's arms. He will have one of his own, was the doctor's unexpected reply. I rose. I saw that he did not intend to dismiss the child. I should like your word, in return for the relief I have undoubtedly brought you, that you will not molest certain parties till the three days are up which I have mentioned as the limit of my own silence. Shall I give my word, Harry? The child startled by the abrupt address, drew his fingers from the long beard he was playfully stroking, and eyeing me with elfish gravity, seemed to ponder the question as if some comprehension of its importance had found entrance into his small brain. Annoyed at the doctor's whim, yet trusting to the child's intuition, I waited with inner anxiety for what those small lips would say, and felt an infinite relief, even if I did not show it, when he finally uttered a faint, yes, and hid his face against the doctor's breast. My last remembrance of them both was the picture they made, as the doctor closed the door upon me, with the sweet confiding child still clasped in his arms. CHAPTER XXV THE WORK OF AN INSTANT I did not take the car at the corner. I was sure the jump was somewhere around and I had a new mission for him of more importance than any he could find here now. I was just looking about for him when I heard cries and screams at my back, and turning saw several persons all running one way. As that way was the one by which I had just come, I commenced running too, and in another moment was one of the crowd collected before the doctor's door. I mean the great front door which, to my astonishment I had already seen was wide open. The sight which there met my eyes almost paralyzed me. Stretched on the pavement spotted with blood lay the two figures I had seen within the last five minutes beaming with life and energy. The old man was dead, the child dying, one little hand outstretched as if in search of the sympathetic touch which had made the last few hours perhaps the sweetest of his life. How had it happened? Was it suicide on the doctor's part, or just pure accident? Either way it was horrible, but I looked about me. There was a man ready to give explanations. He had seen it all. The doctor had been racing with the child in the long hall. He had opened the door probably for air. A sudden dash of the child had brought him to the verge. The doctor had plunged to save him, and losing his balance toppled headlong to the street carrying the child with him. It was all the work of an instant. One moment, two vigorous figures, the next a mass of crushed humanity. A sight to stagger a man's soul, but the thought which came with it staggered me even more. The force which had been driving Mrs. Ocampa to her fate was removed. Henceforth her secret was safe, if I chose to have it so. Someone had seen me come from the doctor's office a few minutes before. Of course this meant detention till the coroner should arrive. I quarreled with the circumstances but felt forced to submit. Happily Jepp now came to the front and I was able to send him to New York to keep that watch over Mrs. Carew without which I could not have rested quiet an hour. One great element of danger was removed, most remarkably, if not providentially, from the path I had marked out for myself, but there still remained that of this woman's possible impulses, under her great determination to keep Gwendolyn in her own care. But with Jepp to watch the dock and a man in plain clothes at the door of the small hotel she was at present bound for, I thought I might remain in Yonkers contentedly the whole day. It was not, however, till late the next afternoon that I found myself again in Homewood. I had heard from Jepp. The steamer had sailed but without two passengers who had been booked for the voyage. Mrs. Carew and the child were still at the address she had given me. All looked well in that direction, but what was the aspect of affairs at Homewood? I trembled in some anticipation of what these many hours of bitter thought might have affected in Mrs. Ocampa, evidently nothing to lessen the gloom into which her whole household had now fallen. Miss Porter, who came in haste to greet me, wore the care-worn look of a long and unrelieved vigil. I was not astonished when she told me she had not slept a wink. How could I, she asked, when Mrs. Ocampa did not close her eyes? She did not even lie down, but sat all night in an armchair, which she had wheeled into Gwendolyn's room, staring like one who sees nothing out into the night through the window which overlooks that river. This morning we cannot make her speak. Her eyes are dry with fever, only now and then she utters a little moan. The doctor says she will not live to see her husband unless something comes to rouse her. But the papers give no news, and all the attempts of the police end in nothing. You saw what a dismal failure their last attempt was. The child on which they counted proved to be both red-haired and pockmarked. Gwendolyn appears to be lost, lost. In spite of the despair thus expressed, my ways seemed to open a little. I think I can break Mrs. Ocampa's dangerous apathy if you will let me see her again. Will you let me try? The nurse, we have a nurse now, will not consent I fear. Then telephone to the doctor, tell him I am the only man who can do anything for Mrs. Ocampa. This will not be an exaggeration. Wait, I will get his order. I do not know why I have so much confidence in you. In another fifteen minutes she came to lead me to Mrs. Ocampa. I entered without knocking, they told me to. She was seated, as they said, in a large chair, but with no ease to herself. For she was not even leaning against its back, but sat with body strained forward, eyes fixed on the ripple of that great river, where, from what she had intimated to me in our last interview, she probably saw as her grave. There was a miniature in her hand, but I saw at first glance, that it was not the face of Gwendolyn over which her fingers closed so spasmodically. It was her husband's portrait, which she held, and it was his face, aroused and full of denunciation, which she evidently saw in her fancy as I drew nearer her in my efforts to attract her attention. For a shiver suddenly contracted her lovely features, and she threw her arms out as if to ward from herself something which she had no power to meet. In doing this her head turned slightly and she saw me. Instantly the spell under which she sat frozen yielded to a recognition of something besides her own terrible brooding. She let her arms drop, and the lips which had not spoken that morning moved slightly. I waited respectfully. I saw that in another moment she would speak. "'You have come,' she panted out at last, to hear my decision. It is too soon. The steamer has twenty-four hours yet before it can make port. I have not finished weighing my life against the good opinion of him I live for. Then faintly Mrs. Carew has gone. To New York I finished. No farther than that,' she asked anxiously. She has not sailed. I did not see how it was compatible with my duty to let her. Mrs. Ocampa's whole form collapsed. The dangerous apathy was creeping over her again. "'You are deciding for me,' she spoke very faintly. You and Dr. Poole.' "'Should I tell her Dr. Poole was dead?' "'No, not yet. I wanted her to choose the noble course for Mr. Ocampa's sake, yes, and for her own.' "'No,' I ventured to rejoin. You are the only one who can settle your own fate. The word must come from you. I am only trying to make it possible for you to meet your husband without any additional wrong, to blunt his possible forgiveness.' "'Oh, he will never forgive. And I have lost all.' And the set look returned in its full force. I made a final attempt. Mrs. Ocampa, we may never have another moment together in confidence. There is one thing I have never told you, something which I think you ought to know as it may affect your whole future course. It concerns Gwendolyn's real mother. You say you do not know her.' "'No, no, do not bring that up. I do not want to know her. My darling is happy with Mrs. Karoo. Too happy. Oh, God, give me no opportunity for disturbing that contentment. Don't you see that I am consumed with jealousy that I might?' She was roused enough now. Cheek and lip and brow were red. Even her eyes looked bloodshot. Alarmed I put out my hand in a soothing gesture, and when her force stopped and her words trailed off into inarticulate murmur, I made haste to say, "'Listen to my little story. It will not add to your pain. Rather, alleviate it.' When I hid behind the curtain that day we all regret, I did not slip from my post at your departure. I knew that another patient awaited the doctor's convenience in my own small room, where he had hastily seated her when your carriage drove up. I also knew that this patient had overheard what you said as well as I. For impervious as the door looked, I had often heard the doctor's muttering when he thought I was safe beyond earshot, if not asleep. And I wanted to see how she would act when she rejoined the doctor, for I had heard a little of what she had said before, and was quite aware that she could help you out of your difficulty if she wished. She was a married woman, or she had been, and she had no use for a child, being very poor and anxious to earn her own living. Would she embrace this opportunity to part with it when it came? You may imagine my interest, boy, though I was. And did she? Was she? Yes. She was ready to make her compact with the doctor just as you had done. Before she left everything was arranged for. It was her child you took, reared, loved, and have now lost. At another time she might have resented these words, especially the last, but I had aroused her curiosity, her panting, eager curiosity, and she let them pass altogether unchallenged. Did you see this woman? Was she of common blood, common manners? It does not seem possible. Gwendolyn is by nature so dainty in all her ways. The woman was a lady, I did not see her face who was heavily veiled, but I heard her voice, it was a lady's voice, and... What! She wore beautiful jewels. Jewels, you said she was poor. So she declared herself, but she had on her neck under her coat a string of beads which were both valuable and of exquisite workmanship. I know because it broke just as she was leaving and the beads fell all over the floor, and one rolled my way and I picked it up, scamp that I was, when both their backs were turned in their search for the others. A bead, a costly bead, and you were not found out? No, Mrs. Ocampa, she never seemed to miss it. She was too excited over what she had done just then to count correctly. She thought she had them all. But this has been in my pocket for six years. Perhaps you have seen it's like. I never have in jewelry shops or elsewhere, till yesterday. Yesterday. Her great eyes haggard with suffering, rose to mine, then they fell on the bead which I had taken from my pocket. The cry she gave was not loud, but it effectually settled all my doubts. What did you know of Mrs. Karoo before she came to the area, I asked impressively. For a minute she did not answer. She was trembling like a leaf. Her mother! she exclaimed at last. Her mother, her own mother. And she never hinted it to me by word or look. Oh, Valerie! Valerie, what tortures we have both suffered and now you are happy while I? Grief seemed to engulf her. Feeling my position keenly I walked to the window. But soon turned and came back in response to her cry. I must see Mrs. Karoo instantly. Give my orders. I will start at once for New York. They will think I have gone to be on hand to meet Mr. Ocampa and will say that I have not the strength. Override their objections. I put my whole cause in your hands. You will go with me? With pleasure, madam. And thus was that terrifying apathy broken up to be succeeded by a spell of equally terrifying energy. CHAPTER 27 The Final Struggle She however did not get off that night. I dared not push the matter to the point of awakening suspicion. And when the doctor said that the ship was not due for twenty-four hours and that it would be madness for her to start without a night's rest and two or three good meals, I succumbed and she also to the few hours delay. More than that she consented to retire and when I joined her in her carriage the following morning it was to find her physically stronger even if the mind was still a prey to deepest anguish and a torturing in decision. Her nurse accompanied us and the maid called Celia so conversation was impossible, a fact I did not know whether to be thankful for or not. On the cars she was shielded as much as possible from everyone's gaze and when we reached New York we were driven at once to the plaza. As I noticed the respect and intense sympathy with which her presence was met by those who saw nothing in her broken aspect but a mother's immeasurable grief I wondered at the secrets which lie deep down in the hearts of humanity and what the effect would be if I should suddenly shout aloud. She is more wretched than you think. Her suspense is one that the child's return would not appease. Dig deeper into mortal fear and woe if you would know what has changed this beautiful woman into a shadow in five days. And I myself did not know her mind. I could neither foresee what she contemplated nor what the effect of seeing the child again would have upon her. I only knew that she must never for a moment be out of sight of someone who loved her. I myself never left the hall upon which her room opened, a precaution for which I felt grateful, when, late in the evening, she opened the door and seeing me stepped out fully dressed for the street. Come and tell Sister Angelina that I may be trusted with you, she said. Sister Angelina was the nurse. Of course I did as she bade me, and after a few more difficulties I succeeded in getting her into a carriage without attracting any special attention. Once there she breathed more easily, and so did I. Now take me to her, she said, whether she meant Mrs. Caru or Gwendolyn I never knew. I now saw that the hour had come for telling her that she no longer need have any fear of Dr. Poole. Whatever she contemplated must be done with the true knowledge of where she stood and to just what extent her secret remained endangered. I do not know if she felt grateful. I almost think that for the first few minutes she felt rather frightened than relieved to find herself free to act as her wishes in her preservation of her place in her husband's heart and the world's regard impelled her. For she never for a moment seemed to doubt that now the doctor was gone I would yield to her misery and prove myself the friend she had begged me to be from the first. She turned herself toward me and sought to read my face, but it was rather to find out what I expected of her than what she had yet to fear from me. I noted this and muttered some words of confidence, but her mood had already changed and they fell on deaf ears. I was not present at the meeting of the two women. That is, I remained in what they call a private parlor while Mrs. O'Kampa passed into the inner room where she knew she would find Mrs. Carew in the child. Nor did I hear much. Some words came through the partition. I caught most of Mrs. Carew's explanation of how she came to give up her newborn child. She was an actress at the time with the London's success to her credit, but with no hold as yet in this country. She was booked for a tour the coming season, the husband who might have seen to the child was dead. She had no friends, no relatives here, save her brother poorer than herself, and the mother instinct had not awakened. She bartered her child away as she would have parted with any other encumbrance likely to interfere with her career. But here her voice rose and I heard distinctly. A fortune was suddenly left me. An old admirer dying abroad bequeathed me two million dollars and I found myself rich. Admired and independent, with no one on earth to care for or to share the happiness of what seemed to me after the brilliant life I had hitherto led, a dreary inaction. Love had no interest for me. I had had a husband and that part of my nature had been satisfied. What I wanted now, and the wish presently grew into a passion, was my child. From passion it grew to mania. Knowing the name of her to whom I had yielded it, I had overheard it in the doctor's office. I hunted up your residence and came one day to Homewood. Perhaps some old servant can be found there to-day who could tell you of the strange, deeply veiled lady who was found one evening at sunset, clinging to the gate with both hands, and sobbing as she looked in at the triumphant little heiress racing up and down the walks with a great mastiff named Don. They will say that it was some poor crazy woman or some mother who had buried her own little darling, but it was I, Marion, it was I, looking upon the child I had sold, for a half year's independence. I, who was brokenhearted now for her smiles and her touches, and saw them all given to strangers, who had made her a princess, but who could never give her such love as I felt for her then in my madness. I went away that time, but I came again soon with the titles of the adjoining property in my pocket. I could not keep away from the sight of her, and felt that the torture would be less to see her in your arms than not to see her at all. The answer was not audible, but I could well imagine what it was. As everyone knew the false mother had not long held out against the attractions of the true one. Instinct had drawn the little one to the heart that beat responsive to its own. What followed I could best judge from the frightened cry which the child suddenly gave. She had evidently waked to find both women at her side. Mrs. Rue's hush-hush did not answer this time. The child was in a frenzy and evidently turned from one to the other, sobbing out alternately. I will not be a girl again. I like my horse in going to Papa and sailing on the big ocean in trousers in a little cap. And the softer phrases she evidently felt suited to Mrs. O'Kampa's deep distress. Don't feel bad, Mama. You shall come to see me some time. Papa will send for you. I am going to him. Then silence. Then such a struggle of woman-heart with woman-heart as I hope never to be witnessed to again. Mrs. O'Kampa was pleading with Mrs. Carew, not for the child but for her life. Mr. O'Kampa would be in port the next morning, if she could show him the child all would be well. Mr. Trevott would manage the details, take the credit of having found Gwendolyn somewhere in the city, and that would ensure him the reward and them his silence. I heard this. There was no one else to fear. Dr. Poole, the cause of all this misery, was dead. And in the future, her heart being set to rest about her secret, she would be happier and make the child happier and they could enjoy her between them. And she would be unselfish and let Gwendolyn spend an hour or more every day with Mrs. Carew on some such plea as lessons in vocal training and music. Thus pleaded Mrs. O'Kampa. But the mother hardly listened. She had eaten with the child, slept with the child, and almost breathed with the child for three days now, and the ecstasy of the experience had blinded her to any other claim than her own. She pitied Mrs. O'Kampa, pitied most of all her deceived husband. But no grief of theirs could equal that of Rachel crying for her child. Let Mrs. O'Kampa remember that when the evil days come. She had separated child from mother, child from mother. Oh, how the whale swept through those two rooms! I dared not prophecy to myself at that point how this would end. I simply waited. The voices had sunk after each passionate outbreak, and I was only able to catch now and then a word which told me that the struggle was yet going on. But finally there came a lull, and while I wondered the door flew suddenly open, and I saw Mrs. O'Kampa standing on the threshold, pallid and stricken, looking back at the picture made by the other two, as Mrs. Carew fell on her knees by the bedside and held to her breast the panting child. I cannot go against nature, she said. Keep Gwendolyn, and may God have pity on me and Philo. I stepped forward, meeting my eye she faltered this last word. Your advice was good. Tomorrow when I meet my husband, I will tell him who found the child and why that child is not at my side to greet him. That night I had a vision I saw a door, shut, ominous, before that door stood a woman, tall, pale, beautiful. She was there to enter, but to what no mortal living could say. She saw nothing but lost in the hollowness of a living death behind that closed door. But who knows angels spring up unknown on the darkest road, and perhaps here the vision broke the day and its possibilities lay before me. End of Chapter 27. End of The Millionaire Baby by Anna Kay Green. Read for you by Don Larson in Minnesota. Thank you for listening.