Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed. Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come. She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side--the possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong perpetrated upon the babe she was deserting. In dogged rebellion she hugged misery to her breast, and dwelt upon it as part of the punishment she had brought upon herself. There was no hope of happiness for her in the future, there was no ray of light to illumine her path. Forever would she be thinking of the child for whom she now, for the first time since its birth, felt a mother's love, and who was henceforth to find a home among strangers. In this hopeless fashion did she muse for some time, and then a star appeared in her dark sky. She might, as she had suggested to Dr. Spenlove, survive her husband; it was more than possible--it was probable; and though there was in the contemplation a touch of treason toward the man who had come to her rescue, she derived satisfaction from it. In the event of his death she must adopt some steps to prove that the child was hers, and that she, and she alone, had the sole right to her. No stranger should keep her darling from her, should rob her of her reward for the sufferings she had undergone. It was for this reason that she had asked Dr. Spenlove for the iron box. It was a compact, well-made box, and very heavy for its size. Any person receiving it as a precious deposit under the conditions she imposed might, when it was in his possession, reasonably believe that it contained mementoes of price, valuable jewels, perhaps, which she wished her child to wear when she grew to womanhood. She had no such treasure. Unlocking the box, she took from her pocket a letter, which she read with a bitterness which displayed itself strongly in her face, which made her quiver with passionate indignation. "The villain!" she muttered. "If he stood before me I would strike him dead at my feet!" There was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. For the father of her child she had only feelings of hatred and scorn. Clearly she was a woman of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate in no niggardly fashion. She tore the letter down in two uneven strips, and placed one strip in the box; the other she folded carefully and returned to her pocket. Then she locked the box, and tying the key with a piece of string, hung it round her neck and allowed it to fall, hidden in her bosom. "If there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!"