Frankie’s thoughts were altogether different. She _was_ angry, burning with resentment against her sister. She _hated_ her! She remembered Lionel’s dreadful face when he had seen her, the shame and anguish in his eyes. Oh, she hated her! The man he might have been, and the thing Minnie had made of him! She had as little sympathy for Mr. Petersen as he for her. Simply he didn’t matter. When she looked at his stolid face, she felt that it wouldn’t be hard to hate him, too. What Lionel must have endured to force him into such a course! Living in Mr. Petersen’s house, on Mr. Petersen’s bounty, seeing his wife living with Mr. Petersen, bearing his child! A feeling she didn’t know was in her came rushing up; a longing to see Minnie suffer, even a little of what she had inflicted upon others. She couldn’t stand Mr. Petersen’s presence another moment--silly sheep--fatuous dupe of a vile woman! She got up abruptly. “I think I’ll go upstairs to the children,” she said. “Good-night!” They were sleeping beautifully. She lighted a little night lamp and looked at them, these children of Minnie, with curiously mixed emotions. She bent over the baby; its fat little cheeks were puffed out, its earnest mouth closed in a sort of pout. An ineffable fragrance rose from the warm little body. Her breath stirred the fine fair hairs on its head, where the pulse still beat so pitifully. Child of that hated sister and that fool of a Petersen--but a baby none the less and sacred and dear. She regarded it with love, she pitied the poor deserted little man. She touched the tiny clenched fist, and at once it seized upon her finger and clung to it blindly. Very gently she unclasped the absurd little fingers and went over to Sandra. This was the child that should have been hers; Lionel’s daughter. The baby was delightful, but Sandra----! She was a dream child, she was beauty in its purest, most exquisite moment. Her pale face, her clear features, her cloud of fine-spun hair, the slender grace of her little limbs, were, Frances thought, like some child angel in an old painting, altogether spiritual. She sat down beside her, to think. It helped her to look down at that innocent and fragile loveliness, sublimation of her poor lover. She grew softer; at last began to weep a little. Very much later, toward two in the morning, she went down to find Mr. Petersen. She was quite sure he would not be in bed. There he was, in his study, reading something. “Mr. Petersen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking--about the children.” He looked at her mutely. “It seems to me--if you’d like me to--it would be better if I stopped here and looked after them.” “I thought you were going abroad,” he said, stupidly. “I don’t care much where I go, as long as I’m more or less useful. And it seems to me that I could be, here.” He couldn’t answer. “I’d like---- How can I help you best about them?” she asked.