, so was Phoebe. He could not
believe that she would part with the child. And supposing Carrie spoke
of the prating, haranguing fellow she had seen?--mentioned the name,
which the stage-manager had given her?--what then? Could Phoebe still
have the cruelty, the wickedness to maintain her course of action--to
keep Carrie from him? Ah! if he had been guilty towards her in the old
days, she had wrung out full payment long ago; the balance of injury
had long since dropped heavily on his side. But who could know how
she had developed?--whether towards hardness or towards repentance.
Still--to-night, probably--she would hear what and whom Carrie had
seen. Any post might bring the fruits of it. And if not--he was
not without a clue. If a girl whose name is known has been playing
recently at an English provincial theatre, it ought to be possible
somehow to recover news of her. He looked at his watch. Too late for
the lawyers. But he roused himself, hailed a cab, and went to his
club, where he wrote at length to his solicitor, describing what had
happened, and suggesting various lines of action.

Then he went home, got some charcoal and paper and by lamp-light began
to draw the face which he had seen--a very young and still plastic
face, with delicate lips open above the small teeth; and eyes--why,
they were Phoebe's eyes, of course!--no other eyes like them in the
world. He drew them with an eager hand, knowing the way of them. He
put the light--the smile--into them; a happy smile!--as of one to
whom life has been kind. No sign of fear, distress, or cringing
poverty--rather an innocent sovereignty, lovely and unashamed. Then
the brow, and the curly hair in its brown profusion; and the small
neck; and the thin, straight shoulders. He drew in the curve of the
shady hat--the knot of lace at the throat--the spare young lines of
the breast.

So it emerged; and when it was done, he put it on an easel and sat
staring at it, his eyes blind with tears.

Yes, it was Carrie--he had no doubt whatever that it was Carrie.
And behind her, mingling with her image--yet distinct--a veiled,
intangible presence, stood Phoebe--Phoebe so like her, and yet so
different. But of Phoebe--still--he would not think. It was as when
a man, mortally tired, shrinks from some fierce contest of brain and
limb, which yet he knows may some day have to be faced. He put his
wife aside, and sank himself in the covetous, devouring vision of his
child.

Next day