implacable deity. In the last twenty-four hours the Unknown Power she
entreated had changed, in her imagination, to an idol who responded only
to the shedding of blood.

"Only spare my child and I will give up everything else!" she cried from
the extremity of her anguish. The sharp edge of the bed hurt her bosom
and she pressed frantically against it. Had it been possible to lacerate
her body, to cut her flesh with knives, she might have found some
pitiable comfort in the mere physical pain. Beside the agony in her
mind, a pang of the flesh would have been almost a joy.

When at last she rose from her knees, Harry lay, breathing quietly,
with his eyes closed and the toy ship on the blanket beside him. His
childish features had shrunken in a day until they appeared only half
their natural size, and a faint bluish tinge had crept over his face,
wiping out all the sweet rosy colour. But he had swallowed a few
spoonfuls of his last cup of broth, and the painful choking sound had
ceased for a minute. The change, slight as it was, had followed so
closely upon her prayers, that, while it lasted, she passed through one
of those spiritual crises which alter the whole aspect of life. An
emotion, which was a curious mixture of superstitious terror and
religious faith, swept over her, reviving and invigorating her heart.
She had abased herself in the dust before God--she had offered all her
life to Him if He would spare her child--and had He not answered? Might
not Harry's illness, indeed, have been sent to punish her for her
neglect? A shudder of abhorrence passed through her as she remembered
the fox-hunt, and her passion of jealousy. The roll of blue silk, lying
upstairs in a closet in the third storey, appeared to her now not as a
temptation to vanity, but as a reminder of the mortal sin which had
almost cost her the life of her child. And suppose God had not stopped
her in time--suppose she had gone to Atlantic City as Oliver had begged
her to do?

In the room the light faded softly, melting first like frost from the
mirror in the corner beyond the Japanese screen, creeping slowly across
the marble surface of the washstand, lingering, in little ripples, on
the green sash of the windowsill. Out of doors it was still day, and
from where she sat by Harry's bed, she could see, under the raised tent,
every detail of the street standing out distinctly in the grey
twilight. Across the way the houses were beginning to show lights a