“Your baby is dead,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and with a hard deliberation.  “As for its grave—­well, if you will drag up the miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched mesalliance I rejected even the dead body of your miserable husband’s child, and would not even suffer it to lie in our family ground.  You know how bitterly I was disappointed, and I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives easily.  I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the past may as well be covered out of sight.”

“Where, then, was my baby buried?” asked Edith, with a calm resolution of manner that was not to be denied.

“I do not know.  I did not care at the time, and never asked.”

“Who can tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who took my baby to nurse?”

“I have forgotten the woman’s name.  All I know is that she is dead.  When the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently.”

“Where did she live?”

“I never knew precisely.  Somewhere down town.”

“Who brought her here? who recommended her?” said Edith, pushing her inquiries rapidly.

“I have forgotten that also,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her coldness of manner.

“My nurse, I presume,” said Edith.  “I have a faint recollection of her—­a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before.  What was her name?”

“Bodine,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Where does she live?”

“She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

“It was Casteline, I think.”

Edith questioned no further.  The mother and daughter were still sitting together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the door and said to Mrs. Dinneford,

“A lady wishes to see you.”

“Didn’t she give you her card?”

“No ma’am.”

“Nor send up her name?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Go down and ask her name.”

The servant left the room.  On returning, she said,

“Her name is Mrs. Bray.”

Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one.  She went from the room without speaking.  On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried voice,

“I don’t want you to come here, Mrs. Bray.  If you wish to see me send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.”

“Why?  Is anything wrong?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Edith isn’t satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.”