hat fated Maria Braccio who had died long
ago, to have his day of happiness and his night of suffering in his turn
and to be a living bond between Gloria and the man who loved her.

They called the boy Walter Crowdie for a relative of Angus Dalrymple,
who had been the last of the name. It was convenient, and he would never
need any other, nor any third name after the two given to him in
baptism.

For a few days after the child's birth, Griggs left his writing-table.
He was almost too happy to work, and he spent many hours by Gloria's
side, not talking, for he knew that she must be kept quiet, but often
holding her hand and always looking at her face, with the strong, dumb
devotion of a faithful bloodhound.

Often she pretended to be sleeping when he was there, though she was
wide awake and could have talked well enough. But it was easier to seem
to be asleep than to play the comedy now, while she was so weak and
helpless. With the simplicity of a little child Griggs watched her, and
when her eyes were closed believed that she was sleeping. As soon as she
opened them he spoke to her. She understood and sometimes smiled in
spite of herself, with close-shut lids. He thought she was dreaming of
him, or of the child, and was smiling in her sleep.

As she lay there and thought over all that had happened, she knew that
she hated him as she had never loved him, even in the first days. And
she hated the child, for its life was the last bond, linking her to Paul
Griggs and barring her from the world forever. Until it had been there
she had vaguely felt that if she had the courage and really wished it,
she might in some way get back to her old life. She knew that all hope
of that was gone from her now.

In the deep perspective of her loosened intelligence the endless years
to come rolled away, grey and monotonous, to their vanishing point. She
had made her choice and had not found heart to give it up, after she had
made it, while there was yet time. Time itself took shape before her
closed eyes, as many succeeding steps, and she saw herself toiling up
them, a bent, veiled figure of great weariness. It was terrible to look
forward to such truth, and the present was no better. She grasped at the
past and dragged it up to her and looked at its faded prettiness, and
would have kissed it, as though it had been a living thing. But she knew
that it was dead and that what lived was horrible to her.

She wished that she might die, as