It seemed as if the latter thought would drive her wild.  “He has so wished for a child,” she moaned.  “We have been married ten years and this baby seemed to have been sent from heaven.  He will curse me, he will hate me, he will never be able after this to bear me in his sight.”  This was not true of Mr. Sutherland, but it was useless to argue with her.  Instead of attempting it, I took another way to stop her ravings.  Lifting the child out of her hands, I first listened at its heart, and then, finding it was really dead,—­Philemon, I have seen too many lifeless children not to know,—­I began slowly to undress it.  “What are you doing?” she cried.  “Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Webb, what are you doing?” For reply I pointed to the bed, where two little arms could be seen feebly fluttering.  “You shall have my child,” I whispered.  “I have carried too many babies to the tomb to dare risk bringing up another.”  And catching her poor wandering spirit with my eye, I held her while I told her my story.

Philemon, I saved that woman.  Before I had finished speaking I saw the reason return to her eye and the dawning of a pitiful hope in her passion-drawn face.  She looked at the child in my arms and then she looked at the one in the bed, and the long-drawn sigh with which she finally bent down and wept over our darling told me that my cause was won.  The rest was easy.  When the clothes of the two children had been exchanged, she took our baby in her arms and prepared to leave.  Then I stopped her.  “Swear,” I cried, holding her by the arm and lifting my other hand to heaven, “swear you will be a mother to this child!  Swear you will love it as your own and rear it in the paths of truth and righteousness!” The convulsive clasp with which she drew the baby to her breast assured me more than her shuddering “I swear!” that her heart had already opened to it.  I dropped her arm and covered my face with my hands.  I could not see my darling go; it was worse than death for the moment it was worse than death.  “O God, save him!” I groaned.  “God, make him an honour—­” But here she caught me by the arm.  Her clutch was frenzied, her teeth were chattering.  “Swear in your turn!” she gasped.  “Swear that if I do a mother’s duty by this boy, you will keep my secret and never, never reveal to my husband, to the boy, or to the world that you have any claims upon him!” It was like tearing the heart from my breast with my own hand, but I swore, Philemon, and she in her turn drew back.  But suddenly she faced me again, terror and doubt in all her looks.  “Your husband!” she whispered.  “Can you keep such a secret from him?  You will breathe it in your dreams.”  “I shall tell him,” I answered.  “Tell him!” The hair seemed to rise on her forehead and she shook so that I feared she would drop the babe.  “Be careful!” I cried.  “See! you frighten the babe.  My husband has but one heart with me.  What I do he will subscribe to.  Do not fear Philemon.”  So I promised in your name.  Gradually she grew calmer.  When I saw she was steady again, I motioned her to go.  Even my more than mortal strength was failing, and the baby—­Philemon, I had never kissed it and I did not kiss it then.  I heard her feet draw slowly towards the door, I heard her hand fall on the knob, heard it turn, uttered one cry, and then—–­