to poison the terrible creature, and hide her mercifully in the
grave?' "

At those words, she abruptly checked herself. I could say
nothing--my face spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the truth.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "you have not seen her! She must have
kept her face hidden from you behind the veil! Oh, why, why did
you cheat me into talking of it! I will never speak of it again.
See, we are frightening the child! Come here, darling; there is
nothing to be afraid of. Come, and bring your cake with you. You
shall be a great lady, giving a grand dinner; and we will be two
friends whom you have invited to dine with you; and the doll
shall be the little girl who comes in after dinner, and has fruit
at dessert!" So she ran on, trying vainly to forget the shock
that she had inflicted on me in talking nursery nonsense to the
child.

Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to second
the effort that she had made. My quieter thoughts suggested that
she might well be self-deceived in believing the horrible
spectacle presented to her in the vision to be an actual
reflection of the truth. In common justice toward Miss Dunross I
ought surely not to accept the conviction of her deformity on no
better evidence than the evidence of a dream? Reasonable as it
undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts still lingering in
my mind. The child's instinct soon discovered that her mother and
I were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game. She
dismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went back
with her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had met
her--the landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother's
part or on mine succeeded in luring her back to us. We were left
together, to face each other as best we might--with the forbidden
subject of Miss Dunross between us.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

LOVE AND MONEY.

FEELING the embarrassment of the moment most painfully on her
side, Mrs. Van Brandt spoke first.

"You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your
life a happier one than it was when we last met?"

"I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.

"Is there any prospect of your being married?"

"My prospect of being married still rests with you."

"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me.
"Don't spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what
can never be! Have you still to be told how it is that you find
me here alone with my child?"

I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than hear it
pass _her_ lips.

"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I
said. "And I saw for myself last night that he had left you
helpless."

"He left me the little money he had with him when he was
arrested," she rejoined, sadly. "His cruel creditors are more to
blame than he is for the poverty that has fallen on us."

Even this negative defense of Van Brandt stung me to the quick.

"I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said, bitterly.
"I ought to have remembered that a woman can forgive almost any
wrong that a man can inflict on her--when he is the man whom she
loves."

She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I could say
any more.

"How can you speak so cruelly to me?" she asked. "You know--to my
shame I confessed it to you the last time we met--you know that
my heart, in secret, is all yours. What 'wrong' are you talking
of? Is it the wrong I suffered when Van Brandt married me, with a
wife living at the time (and living still)? Do you think I can
ever forget the great misfortune of my life--the misfortune that
has made me unworthy of you? It is no fault of mine, God knows;
but it is not the less true that I am not married, and that the
little darling who is playing out there with her doll is my
child. And you talk of my being your wife--knowing that!"

"The child accepts me as her second father," I said. "It would be
better and happier for us both if you had as little pride as the
child."

"Pride?" she repeated. "In such a position as mine? A helpless
woman, with a mock-husband in prison for debt! Say that I have
not fallen quite so low yet as to forget what is due to you, and
you will pay me a compliment that will be nearer to the truth. Am
I to marry you for my food and shelter? Am I to marry you,
because there is no lawful tie that binds me to the father of my
child? Cruelly as he has behaved, he has still _that_ claim upon
me. Bad as he is, he has not forsaken me; he has been forced


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