to think of such barbarity. "Come along, Fawnie. Poor little child."
When they emerged from the orchard, Derek tried to see Fawnie's face but he could not. Yet he had the impression that she was still smiling in the darkness. He could make out the curve of her arms about the baby. He still felt like one in a dream. All this seemed most unreal, and, suddenly, he remembered that July night, a year ago, and the same dark girl whose face he could not see. And here were they two once more—and a third—the silver-haired being in the shawl—born, one might say, of that flash of lightning that had shown them the coign in the cliff.
A steamer was sweeping past; she showed a row of illuminated windows, and a brighter light at the bow. A bell clanged as she passed. . . . Now they were beneath the heavy aching scent of the locust flowers.
"Fawnie," said Derek, "we'll go in at the front door, so the men won't see you."
"The front door," she repeated, in a tone of awe. "Right in at the front door."
A hanging lamp burned in the hall. He hesitated a moment and then took her arm and guided her up the stairs. He had decided that he would give her the bedroom that had been got ready for Edmund at Christmas. There she could keep herself and her baby in seclusion for a few days, till the old squaw should quiet down. He would give Fawnie a little allowance, which would put her in quite a different position in her mother's household.
He lighted two candles that stood on the dressing-table. Their reflection flashed out in the looking-glass: his strong figure in white, his fair face flushed, little knots of per-
