As he turned to leave the room to give the necessary orders, a carriage drove rapidly to the door and stopped, and there was a vigorous pull at the bell.  Thorne had provided against all possible delay.  Then the question arose of who should accompany her, and they found that there was not a single available woman in the house.  It was impossible to let her go alone, and Cumberland, with the curses rising from his heart to his lips, was forced, in very manhood, to go with her himself.

In Brooklyn Mrs. Creswell met them herself at the door, and appeared surprised—­as well she might—­to see Mr. Cumberland.  She motioned Ethel toward the staircase, and then with a formal inclination of the head, ushered her more unwelcome guest into a small parlor where there was a fire and a lamp burning.  Here she left him alone.  Her house was in the suburbs, and there was nowhere else for him to go at that hour of the night and in that terrible storm.

The room was warm and cheerful, a child’s toys lay scattered on floor and sofa, a little hat and coat were on the table, beside a cigar case and a crumpled newspaper.  There was nothing for the man to do save to stare around and walk the floor impatiently, longing for death to hasten with his work, so that the false position might be ended.

Guided by unerring instinct, Ethel went straight to the chamber where her child lay dying—­perhaps already dead.  Outside the door she paused with her hand pressed hard on her throbbing heart.

It was a piteous sight that met her view as the door swung open, rendered doubly piteous by the circumstances.  A luxurious room, a brooding silence, a tiny white bed on which a little child lay, slowly and painfully breathing his life away.

CHAPTER XXI.

There were two persons in the room besides the little one:  Thorne and the doctor, a grave, elderly man, who bowed to the lady, and, after a whispered word with Thorne, withdrew.  Ethel sank on her knees beside the low bed and stretched out yearning arms to the child; the mother-love awakened at last in her heart and showing itself in her face.

“My baby!” she moaned, “my little one, don’t you know your mother?  Open your beautiful eyes, my darling, and look at me; it is your mother who is calling you!” Her bonnet had fallen off, the rich wrap and furs were trailing on the carpet where she had flung them; her arms were gathered close around the little form, her kisses raining on the pallid face, the golden hair.

The sleet beat on the window panes; the air of the room stirred as though a dark wing pressed it; the glow of the fire looked angry and fitful; a great, black lump of coal settled down in the grate and broke; in its sullen heart blue flames leaped and danced weirdly.  The woman knelt beside the bed, and the man stood near her.