ts both arms--it's much warmer."

She clasped him with both arms.

"Ah; that's better," he said. "I hope mummy wouldn't mind, because
she said I wasn't to love any one else but her. But, of course, I
don't really love you, you know. I like you because you're warm."

"You don't love me, then?"

"No; how could I? I could only love mummy, really. Oh, there it is
again! You're still crying, you know."

"Yes; I know I am."

"I suppose you wouldn't come into bed and cry--it's much warmer."

A sob broke in Sally's throat.

Here now it had come--so soon as this--the fulfilment of Janet's
prophecy. The curse of Eve was no mystery to her now. She knew. She
knew what life lacked.

"No; you must go to sleep now, Maurie," she said thickly. "You must
go to sleep now. You mustn't cry any more."

"Very well, then," he said resignedly. "You must promise you won't
too."

"I promise I won't. Good night."

And so, to keep her promise, lest he should hear as she had heard,
she lay on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. But she cried.

CHAPTER II

That night began their friendship. In that night was sown the seed
of the new idea in her mind, which neither the wild passion of her
love for Traill, nor all the stern preaching of Janet's philosophy
had caused to take root before. A child--she knew that now--a child
would save her. A child would make this life of hers worth while.
And, having none, she set her heart, as you set a lure with cunning
hands, to win the love of little Maurice Priestly.

At the age of six, a boy-child is constituted of impressions--soft
wax to the working of any fingers that touch his heart. In their
ramblings together, through the orchards where the ripening apples
turned up their bonny faces, peering through the leaves to find the
sun; up the side of the hills, exploring the hidden dangers of the
hollow chalk-pits--climbing always to see what the world looked like
on the other side--they came to know each other; Sally to know all
his little faults, sometimes of pride, sometimes of lovable
boastfulness; he to know that her heart was aching--aching for
something--something that he could not comprehend. But fancy wove
the story for him. He must have a story with which to realize that
her heart really was aching.

"If there's no story," he said, "I shan't really believe you're sad."

So they sat on the side of the hills, looking out over the head of
the tired old man--the little town