“Yes, I will, I will,” was the response, spoken huskily and having in it no tone like Genevra’s.  “I will as if it were my own,” were the last words Marian said as she went down the steps, followed by Wilford, to whom the thought had just occurred that he ought to see her off.

Marian had not expected this, and the tension of her nerves was hardly equal to the task of sitting there with Wilford Cameron opposite, his baby in her lap, his voice in her ear, and his eyes turned upon her as if curious to know what manner of woman she was.  But the thick veil did its duty well, while the muffler answered the purpose intended; it changed the voice which was only natural once, and that when it addressed the baby, which began to grow restless as they drew near the depot.  Then Wilford was reminded of Genevra, and the thought carried him across the sea, so that he forgot all else until the station was reached and he was busy, procuring checks and ticket.  He saw her into the car, procuring for her a double seat, and speaking a word for her to the conductor, whom he knew.  And this he did partly for Katy’s sake, and partly because in spite of the plain attire he recognized the lady and felt that Marian Hazelton was no ordinary person.  He offered her his hand, wondering why hers trembled so in his grasp, wondering why it was so cold, and wondering, too, why, if she had never been a wife, she wore that plain gold circlet which glittered upon her third finger.

“They certainly call her Miss Hazelton,” he thought, as he bade her good-by and then left her alone, going back to the house which even to him seemed lonely, with all the paraphernalia of babyhood removed.  Still, now that the worst was over, he rather enjoyed it, for Katy was free from care; there was nothing to hinder her gratifying his every wish, and with his spirits greatly enlivened as he reflected how satisfactory everything had been managed at the last, he proposed taking both Helen and Katy to the theatre that night.  But Katy answered:  “No, Wilford, not to-night; it seems too much like baby’s funeral.  I’ll go next week, but not to-night.”

So Katy had her way, but among the worshipers who next day knelt in Grace Church with words of prayer upon their lips, there was not one more in earnest than she whose only theme was, “My child, my darling child.”

She did not get over it by Monday, as Mrs. Cameron had predicted.  She did not get over it at all, though she went without a word where Wilford willed that she should go, and even Helen, with her sounder health and stronger constitution, grew tired of that endless round, which gave her scarcely a quiet hour at home.  And Katy was a belle again, her name on every lip, her praise in every heart, for none could feel jealous, she bore her honors so meekly, wondering why people liked her so much and loving them because they did.  And none admired her more than Helen, who, scarcely less a belle herself, yielded