ou can never marry, remember this day, and what you have
escaped. My little son, that I shall never see! What can you say to
me, Vanna? What can you say to comfort me?"

"Nothing!" said Vanna. "Nothing!" She raised her tear-stained face,
and laid it beside Jean's on the pillow, and at that touch, at the sound
of the broken voice, the hard composure broke down. Jean trembled,
gasped, and clinging tightly to the outstretched arms, sobbed out her
heart in a paroxysm of grief.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later Robert was again summoned to the sick-room; but this time
it was by Jean's request, and when he entered she stretched out her hand
towards him, and pitifully endeavoured to smile.

"Poor darling! I'm sorry I was unkind. I will try, I _will_ try to be
good! I am calmer now."

"Vanna helped you?"

Jean nodded. Robert sat gazing at her, his eyes wistful, like his
voice. It was not jealousy which he felt, nor anger, nor impatience--
but simplest, saddest humiliation. He had failed and Vanna had
succeeded. With all his soul he longed to find the secret of her power.

"How did she help you, dear? What did she say?"

"Nothing! She cried. The tears rolled down her face."

Robert sat silent, holding his wife's hand, and striving, hopelessly,
pitifully, to understand.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

LIFE WORK.

After the first few weeks were over Jean recovered her strength more
quickly than had been expected, and by the end of the second month was
able to take her usual place in the household.

One of the first things which she had done after being pronounced
convalescent was to fold away with her own hands all the tiny garments
which had been prepared with such joy, and to cover the dainty new
furnishings of the nursery with careful wrappings. This done, the key
was turned in the lock, and henceforward there was a ghost-chamber in
the house--a chamber haunted by the ghost of a dead hope.

Jean spoke but little of her loss--the wound went too deep for words;
and as time went on some of the old interest in life began to revive,
aided by the joys of recovered health, and of Robert's devotion, if
possible more ardent than before. Nevertheless no one could look upon
her without realising the change wrought by the last few months. She
had been a merry, thoughtless girl, to whom grief and pain were but
abstract words conveying no definite impression: