ensation. If--if her baby really could not
be recovered except by that sacrifice! If that cruel letter were the
last word, and she forced to decide between them! Which would she give
up? Which follow--her lover or her child?

She went to the window for air--the pain about her heart was dreadful.
And, leaning there against the shutter, she felt quite dizzy from the
violence of a struggle that refused coherent thought or feeling, and
was just a dumb pull of instincts, both so terribly strong--how terribly
strong she had not till then perceived.

Her eyes fell on the picture that reminded her of Bryan; it seemed
now to have no resemblance--none. He was much too real, and loved, and
wanted. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had turned a deaf ear to
his pleading that she should go to him for ever. How funny! Would she
not rush to him now--go when and where he liked? Ah, if only she were
back in his arms! Never could she give him up--never! But then in
her ears sounded the cooing words, "Dear mum!" Her baby--that tiny
thing--how could she give her up, and never again hold close and kiss
that round, perfect little body, that grave little dark-eyed face?

The roar of London came in through the open window. So much life, so
many people--and not a soul could help! She left the window and went to
the cottage-piano she had there, out of Winton's way. But she only sat
with arms folded, looking at the keys. The song that girl had sung at
Fiorsen's concert--song of the broken heart--came back to her.

No, no; she couldn't--couldn't! It was to her lover she would cling. And
tears ran down her cheeks.

A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look
up.

XIV

When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was
standing by the sideboard, holding the child.

He came straight up and put her into Gyp's arms.

"Take her," he said, "and do what you will. Be happy."

Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered
nothing. Her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken
a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected
water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of
something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. Daphne Wing! What
bargain did this represent?

Fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he
cried out:

"Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good!
Why