“Go straight home!” she murmured, half aloud.  “Home, sweet home!  Yes, baby; yes, my darling, we will go home together!”

And creeping cautiously along in the shadows, she reached a flight of the broad stone steps leading down to the river.  She descended them, one by one; the black water lapped against them heavily, heavily; the tide was full up.  She paused; a sonorous, deep-toned iron voice rang through the air with reverberating, solemn melody.  It was the great bell of St. Paul’s tolling midnight—­the Old Year was dead.

“Straight home!” she repeated, with a beautiful, expectant look in her wild, weary eyes.  “My little darling!  Yes, we are both tired; we will go home!  Home, sweet home!  We will go!”

Kissing the cold face of the baby corpse she held, she threw herself forward; there followed a sullen, deep splash—­a slight struggle—­and all was over!  The water lapped against the steps heavily, heavily, as before; the policeman passed once more, and saw to his satisfaction that the coast was clear; through the dark veil of the sky one star looked out and twinkled for a brief instant, then disappeared again.  A clash and clamour of bells startled the brooding night, here and there a window was opened, and figures appeared in balconies to listen.  They were ringing in the New Year—­the festival of hope, the birthday of the world!  But what were New Years to her, who, with white, upturned face, and arms that embraced an infant in the tenacious grip of death, went drifting, drifting solemnly down the dark river, unseen, unpitied by all those who awoke to new hopes and aspirations on that first morning of another life-probation!  Liz had gone; gone to make her peace with God—­perhaps through the aid of her “hired” baby, the little sinless soul she had so fondly cherished; gone to that sweetest “home” we dream of and pray for, where the lost and bewildered wanderers of this earth shall find true welcome and rest from grief and exile; gone to that fair, far glory-world where reigns the divine Master, whose words still ring above the tumult of ages:  “See that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that their angels do always behold the face of My Father who is in heaven.”