‘Feelings! Duties!’ Liz stamped her foot impatiently, as the terms occurred to her mind. Maraquita _had_ no feelings, and recognised no duty. She was lower than the feeble little animals, who would die sooner than desert their young. She had brought a helpless infant--presumably the infant of her lover--into the world, and would not even acknowledge it was hers. _Who_ was the father of this child, thought Liz, that he could stand by quietly and see the desertion of his offspring? Had _he_ no natural instincts, any more than the partner of his sin? Would they _both_ leave their infant to the tender mercies of the world, whilst they went their own ways--one, to be married to the Governor of San Diego--the other, Heaven best knew where? Well, she had staked her last chance, and lost it. Henri de Courcelles would never now receive the proof of her innocence. He was lost to her for ever, and she must bear the burden of shame laid upon her guiltless head as best she might. As she re-entered the bungalow, a wail from Quita’s hapless infant smote her with compassion. ‘My poor little orphan!’ she exclaimed, as she took it in her arms. ‘You are an outcast as well as myself. You have no parents worthy of the name, and I shall never know the joy of being a mother. We must comfort each other under this great calamity as best we may. They say you are my little daughter, and since they say so, I almost wish you were. But I will love you like a daughter, and teach you to love me like a mother, and so you shall comfort my bruised heart, and I will try and make your life happy.’ Up to that moment Rosa had fed and washed the baby, and slept with it in her arms, but now Lizzie took all these sweet maternal duties into her own hands. She nursed it all that day, and when night came she laid it in her own bed. When it was fairly asleep, and Rosa had run over to the negroes’ quarters to chat with her friends, Liz sat down to her sewing in the sitting-room, calmer and less perplexed than she had been for days past. Up to that time she had cherished hope, but now all hope was over. She knew the worst. It was bitterly hard to know it, but at all events suspense was at an end, and there was no new trouble to learn. As she sat by the shaded lamplight, wondering if Mr Courtney knew the name of her father’s family, and if the knowledge could be of any use to herself, she heard a light footstep creeping softly along the verandah, a footstep which she recognised at once, and which she had been wont to jump up and welcome. But now Liz sat still, with burning cheeks bent over her needlework. If Maraquita wished to come to any terms with her, she must be the one to propose them. Liz had prayed her last prayer to the companion of her childhood. Presently a very low and fearful voice called her by her name. ‘Lizzie, Lizzie! Are you quite alone?’