ilence in those two rooms, and in a
few moments it chilled and calmed her. She looked up to see Anabel
staring at her with blank expanded eyes.

"What are you crying for? You?" demanded the young mother. "I never saw
you cry before. And it's not your baby."

"I know it," said Isabel, humbly. "I suppose it is because I am so sorry
for you. I am--terribly."

"I never thought you had that much feeling," said Anabel, dully. "You
were always the strong one. Come and see my baby."

Isabel rose, trembling and unnerved, but no longer shrinking, and
followed Anabel into the nursery, where the child, looking like a little
wax-work, lay in its crib.

"She is dead!" said Anabel, in the same astonished indignant voice. "My
baby!" She caught Isabel's arm and shook it violently. "It isn't true,"
she commanded. "Say it is not. How can it be? She spoke and laughed only
two hours ago. The relapse was nothing. The doctor said so. That is not
my baby." And then her brain stopped for a moment, and Isabel carried
her into the other room.

She remained with her until after the funeral. Anabel, when she
recovered her senses, cried hopelessly for hours, but gradually
controlled herself and rose and went about her affairs with a stern
calm. It was her first trouble, but not for nothing had she been given a
square jaw and a sturdy little figure. She was filled with dumb protest,
and laid away her bright careless youth in the child's coffin, but she
accepted the inevitable.

Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were in the south when the baby died, but arrived
for the funeral. Until then Anabel clung to her friend, and so did young
Colton, who was far more demoralized than his wife. He did not brush his
hair, nor go to bed, but wandered about the house like a bewildered
spirit, occasionally smiting his hands together, or embracing the other
two children convulsively. He had no support to offer his wife, and
Isabel was glad to stay with the brave stricken little creature; but
when Mrs. Leslie arrived she felt herself superfluous and returned home.

She had had little time to think of Gwynne, but it had crossed her mind
that she would accept this heartrending episode, in which she had been
called upon to play an intimate part, as but another warning; one,
moreover, that would stand its ground did she attempt to force it aside.
But Gwynne entered and filled her dispossessed mind the moment she sat
down under her acacia-tree, which was perhaps an hour after h