rice remembered that he had said to
himself that the cry was a phantasy of the brain, an imaginary sound
vibrating from an afflicted body. And now his intellect denied such a
supposition; the cry came from a thing that lived, although it lived in
another world. It seemed to summon him with a strange insistence.
Against his will, and walking slowly as one in a trance, he moved
forward up the narrow stairway till he reached the room that had been
his old bedroom.

The cry came surely from within that room. The dead child was shut in
there. Yes, never before had Maurice been able to locate the cry
precisely. Now he could locate it. With shaking fingers he grasped the
handle of the door. He stood in a faint illumination, and the cry of the
child came louder to his ears. But there mingled with it another cry,
faint yet thrilling with joy:

"Maurice!"

He looked and saw Lily, white as a flower. She was propped on pillows,
and, stretching out her thin girl's arms, she held feebly towards
Maurice a tiny baby.

"Maurice--it is the child!" she whispered.

"The child!" he repeated hoarsely.

For an instant he believed that his fate was sealed, that the spirit,
which for so long had pursued him with its lamenting, now manifested its
actual presence to his eyes. Then, in a flash, the truth came upon him.
He fell upon his knees by the bedside and put out his arms for the
child. He held it. He felt its soft breath against his cheek. A cooing
murmur, as if of tiny happiness, came from its parted lips. It turned
its little face, flushed like a rose, against the breast of Maurice, and
nestled to sleep upon his heart.

And Lily's hand touched him.

"I thought you would not come in time," she said, as the nurse, at a
sign from her, stole softly from the room.

"In time?"

"To see me before--they say, you know, that--"

"Lily!" he cried.

"Hush! The child! Listen, dear. If I die, take the child. It is your
dead child, I think, come to life through me. Yes, yes, it is the little
child that has cried for love so long. Redeem your cruelty, oh, Maurice,
redeem it to your child. Give it your love. Give it your life. Give
it--"

"Lily!" he said again. And there were tears on his cheeks.

"I gave myself to you for this, Maurice. I was waiting for this. Do you
understand me now? You scarcely loved me, Maurice. But I loved you. Let
me think--in dying--that I have brought you peace at last."

He could not speak. The mystery of wo