fifteen years is a long time to
hope against hope, Jacqueline."

The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddened
glare. "You don't know what you are talking about," cried she, and bent
herself again over the child.

Paula went on as if she had not spoken. "Any one that is loved as much
as you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if your
child is dead, there is still some one left whom you can make supremely
happy."

"Him?" the woman's look seemed to say, as she turned and pointed with
frightful sarcasm to the man at their back.

Paula shrank and hastily shook her head. "No, no, not him, but--Let me
tell you a story," she whispered eagerly. "In a certain country-town not
far from here, there is a great empty house. It is dark, and cold, and
musty. No one ever goes there but one old lady, who every night at six,
crosses its tangled garden, unlocks its great side door, enters within
its deserted precincts, and for an hour remains there, praying for one
whose return she has never ceased to hope and provide for. She is
kneeling there to-night, at this very hour, Jacqueline, and the love she
thus manifests is greater than that of man to woman or woman to man. It
is like that of heaven or the Christ."

The woman before her rose to her feet. She did not speak, but she looked
like a creature before whose eyes a sudden torch had been waved.

"Fifteen years has she done this," Paula solemnly continues. "She
promised, you know; and she never has forgotten her promise."

With a cry the woman put out her hands. "Stop!" she cried, "stop! I
don't believe it. No one loves like that; else there is a God and I--"
She paused, quivered, gave one wild look about her, and then with a
quick cry, something between a moan and a prayer, succumbed to the pain
of her injuries, and sank down insensible by the side of her dead child.

With a reverent look Paula bent over her and kissed her seared and
bleeding forehead. "For Mrs. Hamlin's sake," she whispered, and quietly
smoothed down the tattered clothing about the poor creature's wasted
frame.

Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of all
this misery. "I charge myself with the care of that woman," said he,
"and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent ground
with all proper religious ceremonial."

"What, you will do this!" cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for a
moment disturbing the chalk-white p