“Well?”

“Whatever it is, I’ll meet it,” she said.  “Father can’t, he has reached the end.  But even if he could help still, it wouldn’t make much difference in what I’ve been deciding.  Because when I was with Bruce to-night, I saw as clear as I see you now that if I had a child like that—­as sick as that—­I’d sacrifice anything—­everything—­schools, tenement children, thousands!  I’d use the money which should have been theirs, and the time and the attention!  I’d shut them all out, they could starve if they liked!  I’d be like Edith—­exactly!  I’d center on this one child of mine!”

Deborah turned her eyes to his, stern and gleaming with her pain.  And she continued sharply: 

“But I don’t mean to shut those children out!  And so it’s clear as day to me that I can’t ever marry you!  That baby to-night was the finishing stroke!”

She made a quick restless movement.  Baird leaned slowly forward.  Her hands in her lap were clenched together.  He took them both and held them hard.

“No, this isn’t clear,” he said.  “I can feel it in your hands.  This is nerves.  This is the child upstairs.  This is Edith in the house.  This is school, the end of the long winter’s strain.”

“No, it’s what I’ve decided!”

“But this is the wrong decision,” Allan answered steadily.

“It’s made!”

“Not yet, it isn’t, not to-night.  We won’t talk of it now, you’re in no condition.”  Deborah’s wide sensitive lips began to quiver suddenly: 

“We will talk of it now, or never at all!  I want it settled—­done with!  I’ve had enough—­it’s killing me!”

“No,” was Allan’s firm reply, “in a few days things will change.  Edith’s child will be out of danger, your other troubles will clear away!”

“But what of next winter, and the next?  What of Edith’s children?  Can’t you see what a load they are on my father?  Can’t you see he’s ageing fast?”

“Suppose he dies,” Baird answered.  “It will leave them on your hands.  You’ll have these children, won’t you, whether you marry or whether you don’t!  And so will I!  I’m their guardian!”

“That won’t be the same,” she cried, “as having children of our own—­”

“Look into my eyes.”

“I’m looking—­” Her own eyes were bright with tears.

“Why are you always so afraid of becoming a mother?” Allan asked.  In his gruff low voice was a fierce appeal.  “It’s this obsession in your mind that you’ll be a mother like Edith.  And that’s absurd!  You never will!  You say you’re afraid of not keeping school the first thing in your life!  But you always do and you always will!  You’re putting it ahead of me now!”

“Yes, I can put it ahead of you!  But I couldn’t put it ahead of my child!” He winced at this and she noticed it.  “Because you are strong, and the child would be weak!  The child would be like Bruce to-night!”