s
eyes. They rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with
the other hand. Her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it
to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop.

"Don't!" she said, and turned away her face.

Pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly:

"Shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?"

Noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child
whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth.

"Oh! I don't know; what does it matter?"

"Kestrel; would you like to go there? Your aunt--I could write to her."
Noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her.

"Yes," she said, "I would. Only, not Uncle Bob."

"Perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company."

She turned her face away, and that tossing movement of the limbs beneath
the clothes began again. "I don't care," she said; "anywhere--it doesn't
matter."

Pierson put his chilly hand on her forehead. "Gently!" he said, and
knelt down by the bed. "Merciful Father," he murmured, "give us strength
to bear this dreadful trial. Keep my beloved child safe, and bring her
peace; and give me to understand how I have done wrong, how I have failed
towards Thee, and her. In all things chasten and strengthen her, my
child, and me."

His thoughts moved on in the confused, inarticulate suspense of prayer,
till he heard her say: "You haven't failed; why do you talk of
failing--it isn't true; and don't pray for me, Daddy."

Pierson raised himself, and moved back from the bed. Her words
confounded him, yet he was afraid to answer. She pushed her head deep
into the pillow, and lay looking up at the ceiling.

"I shall have a son; Cyril won't quite have died. And I don't want to be
forgiven."

He dimly perceived what long dumb processes of thought and feeling had
gone on in her to produce this hardened state of mind, which to him
seemed almost blasphemous. And in the very midst of this turmoil in his
heart, he could not help thinking how lovely her face looked, lying back
so that the curve of her throat was bared, with the short tendrils of
hair coiling about it. That flung-back head, moving restlessly from side
to side in the heat of the soft pillow, had such a passion of protesting
life in it! And he kept silence.

"I want you to know it was all me. But I can't pretend. Of course I'll
try and not let it hurt you more than I possibly can. I'm sorry for you,