Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and holding Sandra by the hand, all of them dressed for the street. Minnie’s eyes were red; evidently she had been crying up there. “Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m sorry about all this.... But I had to do it, really, for Sandra’s sake. And I did make you happy, and comfortable, didn’t I?” “Yes, yes!” he cried, and actually believed that she had. The pathos of the anxious little figure overwhelmed him. “Minnie!” he cried. “Wait! Just a minute!” She turned again. “If--your--he has gone in to the army--what will you have to live on?” “I don’t know,” she said, “I’ll get on somehow.” “_No!_ ... That can’t be.... For old times’ sake--let me help you--and the children. An allowance--a settlement of some sort....” Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Chris dear,” she said, simply. “If Frances will take the baby,” he suggested, “I’d like to speak to you in my office just a moment.” So Frances sat in the dining-room, with the baby in her arms for the last time, holding Sandra’s little hand, forgotten and deserted, despoiled now of everything, while in the study Mr. Petersen wrote a generous cheque for Minnie. She thought of the house in the suburbs, with the nursery and the playroom; even the new toys. She thought of herself and Mr. Petersen married, for the sake of the children. She thought of Minnie, who had carried off Lionel, and Lionel’s child, and Mr. Petersen’s child, and was now securing a supply of Mr. Petersen’s money. She began to laugh heartily. THE END EPILOGUE Mr. Petersen saw Minnie once again. He and Frances _did_ go to California to live, because they naturally couldn’t endure the mocking house in the suburbs, or the dreadful one in Brownsville Landing. They did well enough; they were both able to make money and to save it; they were kind, industrious, charitable, very much respected. They never quarrelled, and never grew any more intimate or affectionate. A drab sort of life, and they knew it. It was a good thing that Mr. Petersen was both thrifty and well-to-do, for Minnie’s demands on him were constant and outrageous. Her old obsession broke out again; she wrote asking for capital to start a boarding-house. The allowance he sent her didn’t suffice; she wanted, so she said, to become independent. And did, in a most original way. All the money she took in from her boarders she regarded as profit, and belonging to her, while the bills, when they grew too pressing, were sent to Mr. Petersen with complicated and aggrieved letters complaining of the troubles of a landlady. Her independence was a heavy drain on him. He asked Frances if she minded his going East to see her and the children once more. “It’s ten years,” he said. “Robert’ll be quite a boy now.” “Of course I don’t mind,” she answered, “I’d half like to see them myself; especially Minnie. I’m curious.”