It goes right through me.'

"I pushed the woman out almost roughly.

"'It is not ill,' I said. 'It is only restless. Leave me. Don't you see
I am working?'

"And I shut the door sharply. I sat down again at my table and toiled
till dawn. I remember that dawn so well. At last my brain had utterly
tired. I could work no longer. I pushed away my papers and got up. The
room was misty--so I thought--with a flickering grey light. The dirty
white blind was drawn half up. I looked out over the river, and from it
I heard the dull shout of a man on a black barge. This shout recalled to
me my child and the noise of its lament. I listened. All was silent.
There was no murmur from the inner room. And then I remember that
suddenly the silence, for which I had so often longed and prayed,
frightened me. It seemed full of a dreadful meaning. I waited a moment.
Then I walked softly across the room to the folding doors. They were
closed, I opened them furtively and looked into the bedroom. It was
nearly dark. Approaching the bed I could scarcely discern the tiny white
heap which marked where the child lay among the tumbled bedclothes. I
bent down to listen to the sound of its breathing. I could not hear the
sound. Then I caught the child in my arms and carried it over to the
sitting-room window so that the dawn might strike upon its little face.
The face was discoloured. The heart was not beating. Miss Alston, while
I worked, my child had died in a convulsion. It had striven against
death, poor feeble baby, and had had no help from its father. My
medical skill might have eased its sufferings. Might have saved it. But
I had deliberately closed my ears to its appeal for love, for
assistance. I had let it go. I should never hear it again."

Maurice had spoken the last words with excitement. Now he paused. With
an obvious effort he controlled himself and added calmly:

"I buried my child and gave myself again to work. My examination was
close at hand. I passed it brilliantly. But I shuddered at my success.
Those lodgings by the river had become horrible to me. I left them, took
a practice in a remote Cumberland valley, and withdrew myself from the
world, from all who had known me. In this retirement, however, I had a
companion of whose presence at first I was unaware. The dead child
followed me, the child of whom now I feel myself to have been the
murderer."

"No--no--not that!" Lily whispered. But he did not seem to hear her.

"One n