heets of the bed. The babe would probably
sleep on till dawn, and she could herself enjoy much-needed rest.

Then she dreamt that she and her little one were in a fair garden
full of flowers; the child had grown somewhat and could enjoy play.
She thought that she was plucking violets and making a crown for
her baby's head, and then a little staff covered with the same
purple, fragrant flowers, to serve as sceptre, and that she
approached her little one on her knees, and bent to it, and sang:--

"The king has sceptre, crown and ball,
You are my sceptre, crown, and all!"

But then there fell a shadow on them, and this shadow cut off all
light from her and from her child. She looked and saw Jonas. He
said nothing, but stood where the sun shone and he could obscure it.

She lifted her babe and moved it away from the blighting shadow
into warmth and brightness once more. Yet was this but for a
moment, as again the shadow of Jonas fell over them. Once more
she moved the child, but with like result. Then with a great effort
she rose from her knees, carrying the child to go away with it,
far, far from Jonas--and in her effort to do so woke.

She woke to see by the expiring rush-candle and the raw light of
early dawn, that the Broom-Squire was in the room, and was stooping
over the cradle. Still drunk with sleep, she did not stir, did not
rally her senses at once.

Then she beheld how he lifted the pillow from under the infants
head, went down on his knees, and thrust the pillow in upon the
child's face, holding it down resolutely with a hand on each side.

With a shriek of horror, Mehetabel sprang out of bed and rushed
at him, stayed his arms, and unable to thrust them back, caught
the cradle and plucked it to her, and released the babe, that
gasped--seized it in her arms, glued it to her bosom, and dashing
past Jonas before he had risen to his feet, ran down the stairs,
and left the house--never to enter it again.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SHUT OUT.

A raw gray morning.

Mehetabel had run forth into it with nothing over her head, no
shawl about her shoulders, with hair tangled, and eyes dazed,
holding her child to her heart, with full resolve never again to
set foot across the threshold of the farmhouse of Jonas Kink.

No doubt whatever remained now in her mind that the Broom-Squire
had endeavored to compass the death of his child, first by means
of poison, and then by suffocation.

Nothing would ever i