ons. He could
remember every detail of the events as they had happened--the
palpable surprise, the moment of hesitation, the feint of denial which
successively ensued on his arrival. It mattered not what the season or
the hour--he could behold at will the wintry dawn, the deserted cabin,
the glow of embers dying on the hearth within; the white-covered
wagon slowly a-creak along the frozen road beneath the gaunt, bare,
overhanging trees, the pots and pans as they swung at the rear, the
bucket for water swaying beneath, the mounted men beside it, the few
head of swine and cattle driven before them. Years had passed, but he
could feel anew the vague stir of the living bundle which he held on the
pommel of his saddle, the sudden twist it gave to bring its inquiring,
apprehensive eyes, so large in its thin, lank-jawed, piteous little
countenance, to bear on his face, as if it understood its transfer of
custody, and trembled lest a worse thing befall it. One of the women
stopped the wagon and ran back to pin about its neck an additional
wrapping, an old red-flannel petticoat, lest it should suffer in its
long, cold ride. His heart glowed with vicarious gratitude for her
forethought, and he shook her hand warmly and wished her well, and hoped
that she might prosper in her new home, and stood still to watch the
white wagon out of sight in the avenue of the snow-laden trees, above
which the moon was visible, a-journeying too, swinging down the western
sky.

Laurelia Sudley sat in stunned amazement when, half-frozen, but
triumphant and flushed and full of his story, he burst into the warm
home atmosphere, and put the animated bundle down upon the hearth-stone
in front of the glowing fire. For one moment she met its forlorn gaze
out of its peaked and pinched little face with a vague hesitation in her
own worn, tremulous, sorrow-stricken eyes. Then she burst into a tumult
of tears, upbraiding her husband that he could think that another child
could take the place of her dead child--all the dearer because it was
dead; that she could play the traitor to its memory and forget her
sacred grief; that she could do aught as long as she should live but
sit her down to bewail her loss, every tear a tribute, every pang its
inalienable right, her whole smitten existence a testimony to her love.
It was in vain that he expostulated. The idea of substitution had
never entered his mind. But he was ignorant, and clumsy of speech, and
unaccustomed