Thus the struggle ended for him, which for her had simply begun.

Not till she found herself in the South with her girl friend, Antoinette Duclos, did she discover that the closest bond which can unite man and woman held her in spite of her late compact with Carleton Roberts.  Should she reassert her rights and demand that the father should recognize his child?  Her generous heart said No.  The old arguments held good.  She appealed to Antoinette for advice.

The result we know.  When Antoinette’s own child died at birth, she took Ermentrude’s to her heart and brought it up as her own.  There was little difficulty in this, as the Professor had already yielded to a Southern fever and lay at rest in a New Orleans cemetery.

And this brings us to another episode.

* * * * *

The widow in fact and the widow in heart stood face to face above a sleeping infant.  They were both dressed for traveling and so was the babe.  The dismantled rooms showed why.  Young still, for the years of either’s romance had been few, each face, as the other contemplated it, told the story of sorrow which Time, for all its kindliness, would never efface.  But the charm of either remained—­perceptible at this hour as perhaps it would never be again to the same extent.  Antoinette basked in the light of Ermentrude’s beauty ennobled by renunciation, and Ermentrude in that wonderful look in her friend’s plain face which came at great crises and made her for the moment the equal of the best.

They had said little; and they said little now, as is the way of the strong amongst us when an act is to be performed which wrings the heart but satisfies the conscience.

The child was legitimate.  It must not grow up under a shadow.  To insure its welfare and raise no doubt in its own mind as it grew in knowledge and feeling, the two women must separate.  No paltering with this duty, and no delay.  A month of baby cries and baby touches might weaken the real mother.  It should be now.  It should be to-day.

But first, a final word—­a parting question.  It was uttered by Ermentrude.

“You will go back to France?”

“Yes.  I can easily live there.  And you, Ermentrude?”

“To New York.  I shall never go far from him.  But he and I will never meet.  My world will not be his world.  I shall make my own place.”

“As Ermentrude Taylor?”

“As Mrs. Ermentrude Taylor.  I am a wife.  I shall never forget that fact.”

“And the child?  Will you never come to see it?”

Ermentrude’s head fell and she stood a long time without answering.  Then with a steady look she calmly said: 

“I can think of but one contingency which might shake my resolution to leave her yours without the least interruption from me.  If he—­Antoinette, if he were left alone and childless, I might see my duty differently from now.  You must be prepared for that.”