The girl did not reply. She was wrestling with a problem that is as old as the ages, although she did not know it--why this tragedy of hers should not be his. She lay with her hands crossed quietly on her breast and one of the loosened yellow braids was near his hand. He picked it up and ran it through his fingers. "Hasn't hurt your looks any," he said awkwardly. "You're looking pretty good." With a jerk of her head she pulled the braid out of his fingers. "Don't," she said and fell to staring at the ceiling, where she had written her problem. "How's the--how's the kid?"--after a moment. "I don't know--or care." There was nothing strange to Al in this frame of mind. Neither did he know or care. "What are you goin' to do with it?" "Kill it!" Al considered this a moment. Things were bad enough now, without Claribel murdering the child and making things worse. "I wouldn't do that," he said soothingly. "You can put it somewhere, can't you? Maybe Rosie'll know." "I don't want it to live." For the first time he realised her despair. She turned on him her tormented eyes, and he quailed. "I'll find a place for it, kid," he said. "It's mine, too. I guess I'm it, all right." "Yours!" She half rose on her elbow, weak as she was. "Yours! Didn't you throw me over when you found I was going to have it? Yours! Did you go through hell for twenty-four hours to bring it into the world? I tell you, it's mine--mine! And I'll do what I want with it. I'll kill it, and myself too!" "You don't know what you're saying!" She had dropped back, white and exhausted. "Don't I?" she said, and fell silent. Al felt defrauded, ill-treated. He had done the right thing; he had come to see the girl, which wasn't customary in those circles where Al lived and worked and had his being; he had acknowledged his responsibility, and even--why, hang it all---- "Say the word and I'll marry you," he said magnanimously. "I don't want to marry you." He drew a breath of relief. Nothing could have been fairer than his offer, and she had refused it. He wished Rosie had been there to hear. And just then Rosie came. She carried the baby, still faintly odorous of violets, held tight in unaccustomed arms. She looked awkward and conscious, but her amused smile at herself was half tender. "Hello, Claribel," she said. "How are you? Just look here, Al! What do you think of this?" Al got up sheepishly and looked at the child. "Boy or girl?" he asked politely. "Girl; but it's the living image of you," said Rose--for Rose and the Nurse were alike in the wiles of the serpent. "Looks like me!" Al observed caustically. "Looks like an over-ripe tomato!" But he drew himself up a trifle. Somewhere in his young and hardened soul the germs of parental pride, astutely sowed, had taken quick root. "Feel how heavy she is," Rose commanded. And Al held out two arms unaccustomed to such tender offices. "Heavy! She's about as big as a peanut."