er is a rich man, and however much you may have
displeased him he cannot wish you to be left to the mercy of the
world--especially when your time comes. Let me write to him. . . ."

That terrified me, for I saw only one result--an open quarrel between my
father and my husband about the legitimacy of my child, who would
probably be taken away from me as soon as it was born.

So taking Mildred by the arm, regardless of the observation of
passers-by, I begged and prayed and implored of her not to write to my
father.

She promised not to do so, and we parted on good terms; but I was not
satisfied, and the only result of our day's journeying was that I became
possessed of the idea that the whole world was conspiring to rob me of
my unborn child.

A few days later Mildred called again, and then she said:

"I had another letter from Father Donovan this morning, Mary. Your poor
priest is broken-hearted about you. He is sure you are in London, and
certain you are in distress, and says that with or without his Bishop's
consent he is coming up to London to look for you, and will never go
back until you are found."

I began to suspect Mildred. In the fever of my dread of losing my child
I convinced myself that with the best intentions in the world, merely
out of love for me and pity for my position, she would give me
up--perhaps in the very hour of my peril.

To make this impossible I determined to cut myself off from her and
everybody else, by leaving the boarding-house and taking another and
cheaper lodging far enough away.

I was encouraged in this course by the thought of my diminishing
resources, and though heaven knows I had not too many comforts where I
was. I reproached myself for spending so much on my own needs when I
ought to be economising for the coming of my child.

The end of it all was that one morning early I went down to the corner
of Oxford Street where the motor-omnibuses seem to come and go from all
parts of London.

North, south, east, and west were all one to me, leading to labyrinths
of confused and interminable streets, and I knew as little as a child
which of them was best for my purpose. But chance seems to play the
greatest part in our lives, and at that moment it was so with me.

I was standing on the edge of the pavement when a motor-bus labelled
"Bayswater Road" stopped immediately in front of me and I stepped into
it, not knowing in the least why I did so.

Late that evening, having fo