Why had he saved the child.  One minute more where she had been would be certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have rescued her, and yet—­and yet—­what harm has the child done, that he should wish for her death like this.

Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of—­not Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it all mean.

A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so gravely.  ‘Mummy says,’ she begins, ’that she doesn’t know who I is, I’se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.’

Paul returns quickly, ‘Is this true?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ she replies slowly, ’quite true, I found her, and was never able to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.’

‘Three years, have you kept her,’ he says, ’you! a woman with a past like yours, how—­’

‘Spare me! spare me!’ she cries, ’have I not suffered enough, am I not suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful face has often stayed me from....  Last year, I thought I would go and seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say, “Poor woman, how ill she looks!” and I dared not speak to you; death was what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl’s voice haunted me.  “Poor woman,” aye indeed!  I was to be pitied; I had done wrong, but I would try to atone—­but why am I telling you all this, you who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life.  Oh! my God! my God! have mercy—­’ And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her head on the little green mound.

A strange sight the old vicar sees as he passes through the long grass on his way to the church; a tall man in flannels gazing down on the figure of a woman, kneeling before him, divided only by a small grave, and a little golden-haired child looking at them wonderingly; he has spoken to the child before and now she leaves the other two and follows him into the sacred edifice.

The bell begins to toll for even-song, but neither Paul nor Clotilde move, so close they are together, only the past lies between them.  A small cross marks the grave of their child, whereon his name, and age (but a few months) is inscribed.

Paul reads the inscription though he knows it only too well, and then he once more rests his gaze on the woman before him; the woman he once loved! nay, does still love, for a great desire to comfort her comes over him.

‘Clotilde,’ he says at length, ‘let us forget the past.  Come.’

He takes her by the hand and he leads her gently to the church, up the aisle they go, and side by side they kneel; and the old clergyman is not surprised to see them, and the little golden-haired child watches them from another pew.