“That detestable washwoman!” he muttered.  “How often have I told her not to place her basket where everybody is sure to run into it!”

He opened the door and I carried the basket into the room, while he struck a match and lighted the drop-light on the table.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he went on, stooping to lift the cloth which covered the basket.  “I want to count—­Gracious heavens! what is this?” he cried suddenly, springing up as if he had stepped on something alive; then he sank down into an arm-chair, and sat staring vacantly before him.  In the basket lay a sleeping infant, apparently about eight months old.  As soon as I had recovered from my first astonishment, I bent down over it and regarded it attentively.  It was a beautiful, healthy-looking child,—­not a mere formless mass of fat with hastily sketched features, as babes of that age are apt to be.  Its face was of exquisite finish, a straight, well-modelled little nose, a softly defined dimpled little chin, and a fresh, finely curved mouth, through which the even breath came and went with a quiet, hardly perceptible rhythm.  It was all as sweet, harmonious, and artistically perfect as a Tennysonian stanza.  The little waif won my heart at once, and it was a severe test of my self-denial that I had to repress my desire to kiss it.  I somehow felt that my friend ought to be the first to recognize it as a member of his household.

“Storm,” I said, looking up at his pale, vacant face.  “It is a dangerous thing to covet one’s neighbor’s child.  But, if you don’t adopt this little dumb supplicant, I fear you will tempt me to break the tenth commandment.  I believe there is a clause there about coveting children.”

Storm opened his eyes wide, and with an effort to rouse himself, pushed back the chair and knelt down at the side of the basket.  With a gentle movement he drew off the cover under which the child slept, and discovered on its bosom a letter which he eagerly seized.  As he glanced at the direction of the envelope, his face underwent a marvellous change; it was as if a mask had suddenly been removed, revealing a new type of warmer, purer, and tenderer manhood.

The letter read as follows: 

  “DEAREST EDMUND: 

It has gone all wrong with me.  You know I would not come to if there was any other hope left.  As for myself, I do not care what becomes of me, but you will not forsake my little girl.  Will you dear Edmund?  I know you will not.  I promise you, I shall never claim her back.  She shall be yours always.  Her name is Ragna; she was born February 25th, and was christened two months later.  I have prayed to God that she may bring happiness into your life, that she may expiate the wrong her mother did you.

I was not married until five years after you left me.  It is a great sin to say it, but I always hoped that you would come back to me I did not know then how great my wrong was.  Now I know