A feeling of awe stole upon him; the child he was gazing on might have been his own dead child, so strong was the resemblance between them. There was a little hair upon the pretty head, as there was upon the head of his dead babe; it was dark, as hers was; there was a singular resemblance in the features of the children; the limbs, the feet, the little baby hands, the pouting mouth, might have been cast in the same mould. The subtle instinct of a mother's love would have enabled her to know instinctively which of the two was her own babe, but it would be necessary for that mother to be blessed with sight before she could arrive at her unerring conclusion. A father could be easily deceived, and the tender age of the children would have been an important--perhaps the chief--factor in the unconscious error. "Surely," Aaron thought, as he contemplated the sleeping babe, "this is a sign that I am acting rightly." Men less devout than he might have regarded it as a Divine interposition. But though he strove still to justify his act, doubt followed every argument he used in his defence. The next hour was occupied in necessary details which had not hitherto occurred to him. The clothing of the children had to be exchanged. It was done; the dead was arrayed as the living, the living as the dead. Mere words are powerless to express Aaron's feelings as he performed this task, and when he placed the living, breathing babe in the bed in which Rachel lay, and took his own dead child to an adjoining room, and laid it in his own bed, scalding tears ran down his cheeks. "God forgive me, God forgive me!" he murmured, again and again. He knelt by Rachel's bed, and buried his face in his hands. He had committed himself to the deception; there was no retreat now. For weal or woe, the deed was done. And there was so much yet to do, so much that he had not thought of! Each false step he was taking was leading to another as false as that which had preceded it. But if the end justified the means--if he did not betray himself--if Rachel, awaking, suspected nothing, and heard the voice of the babe by her side, without suspecting that it was not her own, why, then, all would be well. And all through his life, to his last hour, he would endeavour to make atonement for his sin. He inwardly acknowledged it now, without attempting to gloss it over. It _was_ a sin; though good would spring from it, though a blessing might attend it, the act was sinful. His painful musings were arrested by a knock at the street door. With a guilty start he rose to his feet, and gazed around with fear in his eyes. What did the knock portend? Was it in some dread way connected with his doings? The thought was harrowing. But presently he straightened himself, set his lips firmly, and went downstairs to attend to the summons. CHAPTER XXIII. PLUCKED FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH.