d marvellous strength came to her. She raised herself upon her
elbow and reverently drew the corner of the blanket from the tiny head.

Suddenly the birds ceased singing. The June morning was enveloped in a
black pall. The ominous stillness that precedes an outburst of the
elements held breath in check.

Joyce was perfectly conscious. In the hideous blackness she saw her
baby's face clear and distinct, and with firm fingers she tore the
wrappings from the small body--she must see all, all.

Misshapen and grim in its old, sinister expression of feature, the baby
lay exposed. The face was grotesque in its weazened fixity; the little
legs were twisted, and the thin body lay crooked among its blankets. The
big eyes stared into the horrified ones above them as if pleading for
mercy. The sight turned Joyce ill.

"In spite of all," the stare seemed to challenge, "can you accept me?"

In that moment when the bitter cup was pressed to motherhood's lips,
Joyce received the holiest sacrament that God ever bestows. In divine
strength she accepted her child. This little, blighted creature would
have no one but her to look to--to find life through. All that it was to
receive, until it went out of life, must come first through her. Should
she fail it?

With fumbling and untrained hands she drew it to her, and pressed it
against her breast. With the touch of the small body at her heart, the
dawn crept back into the room, and from afar the birds sang.

With all her striving, poor Joyce had not eliminated from the baby's
life the inheritance of others' sins. He had come, bearing a heavy load
of disease and deformity. All that was left for her to do now, was to
lift the cross as she might from this stunted and saddened life, and
walk beside him to the farther side.

The poor, little wrinkled mouth was nestling against the mother-breast.
Instinct was alive in the child. Joyce laughed. At first tremblingly,
then shrilly. Suddenly she began to sing a lullaby, and the tune was
interrupted by laughs and moans.

Higher and higher the fever rose. Isa Tate, beside herself with fright,
screamed for help, and for days Jude Lauzoon's house was the meeting
place of Life and Death; then Life triumphed, and people breathed
relievedly.

"A homely young-un often makes handsome old bones," comforted Isa. Now
that Joyce was creeping back from the dangers that had beset her, Isa
felt a glow of pride and interest. She was an honourable diploma to