ancy to it and adopt it
yourself.

"And there's a lot of other ways to get rid of a baby. You could give it
the wrong medicine by mistake, or just walk out and forget it. And
there's the river; you could drop it into those black waters. And then
you're free--baby would never know. He would be ever so much better off.
And you would be free.

"You must be free. You must get a little taste of life. You've a right
to it. You lived in a little stupid village all your years--and now
you're in the city. Listen to it! It would be yours for the asking. And
it gives riches and glory to the pretty girls it likes. But you must go
to it as a girl, not as a poor, broken, ragged thing, lugging a sickly
baby with no name. Get rid of the baby, my dear. It will die, anyway. It
will starve and sicken. Put it out of its misery. That medicine on your
wash-stand--an overdose of that and you can say it was a mistake. Who
can prove it wasn't? Then you are free. You'll have hundreds of friends,
and a career, and a motor of your own, and servants, and a beautiful
home. Don't waste your youth, my dear. Invest your beauty where it will
bring big proceeds.

"See those lights off there--the big lights with the name of that woman
in electric letters? She came to town poorer than you and with a worse
name. Now she is rich and famous. And the Countess of--What's-her-name?
She was poor and bad, but she didn't let any old-fashioned ideas of
remorse hold her back. Go on; get rid of the brat. Go on!"

Hilda clutched the baby closer and moved away to shield her from this
grim counselor. When she turned again she was alone. The woman had gone,
but the air trembled with her fierce wisdom. She was ruthless, but how
wise!

The lights flaring up into the sky carried that other woman's name. Her
picture was everywhere. She had been poor and wicked. Now she was a
household word, respected because she was rich. She had succeeded.

There came a lilting of music on a breeze. They were dancing, somewhere.
The tango "coaxed her feet." Her body swayed with it.

If she were there, men would quarrel over her, rush to claim her--as
they had done even in the village before she threw herself away on the
most worthless, shiftless of the lot, who got her into trouble and
deserted her. It was not her business to starve for his baby.

The baby began to fret again, to squawk with vicious explosions of ugly
rage; it puled and yowled. It was a nuisance. It caught a fistful