"We were alone," answered Latimer. "I did not know whom to call. I read medical books--for hours each day I read them. I thought that perhaps I might be able to do--what was necessary. But on the night she was taken ill--I was stricken with terror. She was so young and childlike--she had lived through months of torture--the agony seemed so unnatural to me, that I knew I must go for help--that I was not mentally calm enough to go through the ordeal. A strange chance took me to a man who had years before studied medicine as a profession. He was a singular being, totally unlike his fellows. He came to her. She died with her hand in his." "Did the child die too?" Baird asked, after a pause. "No; it lived. After she was laid in the earth on the hillside, I came away. It was the next day, and I was not sane. I had forgotten the child existed, and had made no plans for it. The man I spoke of--he was unmarried and lonely, and a strange, huge creature of a splendid humaneness--he had stood by me through all--a mountain of strength--the man came to my rescue there and took the child. It would be safe with him. I know nothing more." "Do you not know his name?" Baird asked. "Yes; he was called Dwillerby by the country people. I think he had been born a gentleman, though he lived as the mountaineers did." "Afterwards," said Baird, "you went abroad as you had planned?" "Yes. I invented the story of her death. I wrote the details carefully. I learned them as a lesson. It has been my mother's comfort--that story of the last day--the open window--the passing peasants--the setting sun--I can see it all myself. That is my lie. Did you suspect it when I told it?" "No, God knows!" Baird answered. "I did not." "Never?" inquired Latimer. "What I have thought was that you had suffered much more than you wished your mother to know; that--perhaps--your sister had suffered more than you would reveal; and that you dreaded with all your being the telling of the story. But never such tragedy as this--never--never!" "The man--the man who wrought that tragedy," began Latimer, staring darkly before him, "somewhere he stands to-night--unless his day is done. Somewhere he stands--as real a man as _you_." "With all his load upon him," said Baird; "and he may have loved her passionately." "It should be a heavy load," said Latimer, with bitter gloom; "heavy--heavy." "You have not once uttered his name," said Baird, the thought coming to him suddenly. "No," said Latimer; "I never knew it. She prayed so piteously that I would let her hide it. She knelt and sobbed upon my knee, praying that I would spare her that one woe. I could spare her no other, so I gave way. She thanked me, clinging to me and kissing my hand. Ah, her young, young heart wrung with sobs and tears!"