out of the ranks of the living at one and the same moment. And
why not? She who had again and again refused to be my wife--did
she deserve that I should leave her free to go back, perhaps, for
the second time to Van Brandt? On the evening when I had saved
her from the waters of the Scotch river, I had made myself master
of her fate. She had tried to destroy herself by drowning; she
should drown now, in the arms of the man who had once thrown
himself between her and death!

Self-abandoned to such atrocious reasoning as this, I stood face
to face with her, and returned deliberately to my unfinished
sentence.

"If I had died in England, you would have been provided for by my
will. What you would have taken from me then, you may take from
me now. Come to the boat."

A change passed over her face as I spoke; a vague doubt of me
began to show itself in her eyes. She drew back a little, without
making any reply.

"Come to the boat," I reiterated.

"It is too late." With that answer, she looked across the room at
the child, still waiting by the door. "Come, Elfie," she said,
calling the little creature by one of her favorite nicknames.
"Come to bed."

I too looked at Elfie. Might she not, I asked myself, be made the
innoce nt means of forcing her mother to leave the house?
Trusting to the child's fearless character, and her eagerness to
see the boat, I suddenly opened the door. As I had anticipated,
she instantly ran out. The second door, leading into the square,
I had not closed when I entered the courtyard. In another moment
Elfie was out in the square, triumphing in her freedom. The
shrill little voice broke the death-like stillness of the place
and hour, calling to me again and again to take her to the boat.

I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt. The stratagem had succeeded. Elfie's
mother could hardly refuse to follow when Elfie led the way.

"Will you go with us?" I asked. "Or must I send the money back by
the child?"

Her eyes rested on me for a moment with a deepening expression of
distrust, then looked away again. She began to turn pale. "You
are not like yourself to-night," she said. Without a word more,
she took her hat and cloak and went out before me into the
square. I followed her, closing the doors behind me. She made an
attempt to induce the child to approach her. "Come, darling," she
said, enticingly--"come and take my hand."

But Elfie was not to be caught: she took to her heels, and
answered from a safe distance. "No," said the child; "you will
take me back and put me to bed." She retreated a little further,
and held up the key: "I shall go first," she cried, "and open the
door."

She trotted off a few steps in the direction of the harbor, and
waited for what was to happen next. Her mother suddenly turned,
and looked close at me under the light of the stars.

''Are the sailors on board the boat?" she asked.

The question startled me. Had she any suspicion of my purpose?
Had my face warned her of lurking danger if she went to the boat?
It was impossible. The more likely motive for her inquiry was to
find a new excuse for not accompanying me to the harbor. If I
told her that the men were on board, she might answer, "Why not
employ one of your sailors to bring the money to me at the
house?" I took care to anticipate the suggestion in making my
reply.

"They may be honest men," I said, watching her carefully; "but I
don't know them well enough to trust them with money."

To my surprise, she watched me just as carefully on her side, and
deliberately repeated her question:

"Are the sailors on board the boat?"

I informed her that the captain and crew slept in the boat, and
paused to see what would follow. My reply seemed to rouse her
resolution. After a moment's consideration, she turned toward the
place at which the child was waiting for us. "Let us go, as you
insist on it," she said, quietly. I made no further remark. Side
by side, in silence we followed Elfie on our way to the boat.

Not a human creature passed us in the streets; not a light
glimmered on us from the grim black houses. Twice the child
stopped, and (still keeping slyly out of her mother's reach) ran
back to me, wondering at my silence. "Why don't you speak?" she
asked. "Have you and mamma quarreled?"

I was incapable of answering her--I could think of nothing but my
contemplated crime. Neither fear nor remorse troubled me. Every
better instinct, every nobler feeling that I had once possessed,
seemed to be dead and gone. Not even a thought of the child's
future troubled my mind. I had no power of looking on further
than the fatal leap from the boat: beyond that there was an utter


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