"Don't you think," he said, "you make too much of it--I mean, as to the baby. He wouldn't hurt his own child." Again the blood ran into her cheeks, and she looked a suffering so acute that Raven got up and walked through the room to the window. It seemed an indecency to scan the anguished page of her face. "That's it," she said, in a strangled voice. "When he has his spells he don't believe the baby's his." "God!" muttered Raven. He turned and came back to her. "You don't mean to live with him," he said. "You can't. You mustn't. The man's a brute." She was looking up at him proudly. "But," she said, "baby is his own child." "Good God! of course it is," broke out Raven, in a fever of impatience. "Of course it's his child. You don't need to tell me that." Then, incredibly, she smiled and two dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth and altered her face from a mask of tragic suffering to the sweetest playfulness. "You mustn't say 'it,'" she reproved him. "You must say 'he.' Anybody'd know you ain't a family man." Raven stood looking at her a moment, his own smile coming. Then he sat down in his chair. He wanted to tell her how game she was, and there seemed no way to manage it. But now he could ask her questions. Her friendliness, her amazing confidence, had opened the door. "Exactly what do you mean?" he asked, yet cautiously, for even after her own avowals he might frighten her off the bough. "Does he drink?" She looked at him reprovingly. "No, indeed," she said. "He's a very religious man." "The devil he is!" Raven found himself muttering, remembering the catamount yells and the axe. "Then what," he continued, with as complete an air as he could manage of taking it as all in the day's work, "what do you mean by his spells?" She was silent a moment. Her mind seemed to be going back. "He gits--mad," she said slowly. "Crazy, kind of. It's when he looks at baby and baby looks different to him." "Different? How different?" "Why," she said, in a burst of pride turning for an instant to the little figure on the couch, "baby's got awful cunnin' little ways. An' he's got a little way o' lookin' up sideways, kind o' droll, an' when he does that an' Mr. Tenney sees it"--here Raven glanced at her quickly, wondering what accounted for her being so scrupulous with her "Mr. Tenney"--"he can't help noticin' it an' he can't help thinkin' how baby ain't colored like either of us--we're both dark----" There she stopped, at last in irreparable confusion, and Raven was relieved. How could he let her, he had been thinking, go on with the sordid revelation? When he spoke, it was more to himself than to her, but conclusively: "The man's a beast."