I remember that I was making a movement to go back to Ilford (God knows how), when, on the top of all my brave thinking, came the pitiful thought of my child.  My poor helpless little baby, who had made no promise and was party to no pledge.  She needed nourishment and fresh air and sunshine, and if she could not get them—­if I went back to her penniless—­she would die!

My sweet darling!  My Isabel, my only treasure!  Martin’s child and mine!

That put a quick end to all my qualms.  Again I bit my lip until it bled, and told myself that I should speak to the Very next man who came along.

“Yes, the very next man who comes along,” I thought.

I was standing at that moment in the shadow of one of the pilasters of the loggia, almost leaning against it, and in the silence of the street I heard distinctly the sharp firm step of somebody coming my way.

It was a man.  As he came near me he slowed down, and stopped.  He was then immediately behind me.  I heard his quick breathing.  I felt that his eyes were fixed on me.  One sidelong glance told me that he was wearing a long ulster and a cap, that he was young, tall, powerfully built, had a strong, firm, clean-shaven face, and an indescribable sense of the open air about him.

“Now, now!” I thought, and (to prevent myself from running away) I turned quickly round to him and tried to speak.

But I said nothing.  I did not know what women say to men under such circumstances.  I found myself trembling violently, and before I was aware of what was happening I had burst into tears.

Then came another blinding moment and a tempest of conflicting feelings.

I felt that the man had laid hold of me, that his strong hands were grasping my arms, and that he was looking into my face.  I heard his voice.  It seemed to belong to no waking moment but to come out of the hours of sleep.

“Mary!  Mary!”

I looked up at him, but before my eyes could carry the news to my brain I knew who it was—­I knew, I knew, I knew!

“Don’t be afraid!  It’s I!”

Then something—­God knows what—­made me struggle to escape, and I cried: 

“Let me go!”

But even while I was struggling—­trying to fly away from my greatest happiness—­I was praying with all my might that the strong arms would hold me, conquer me, master me.

They did.  And then something seemed to give way within my head, and through a roaring that came into my brain I heard the voice again, and it was saying: 

“Quick, Sister, call a cab.  Open the door, O’Sullivan.  No, leave her to me.  I’ve got her, thank God!”

And then blinding darkness fell over me and everything was blotted out.

But only a moment afterwards (or what seemed to be a moment) memory came back in a great swelling wave of joy.  Though I did not open my eyes I knew that I was safe and baby was safe, and all was well.  Somebody—­it was the same beloved voice again—­was saying: