Faradeane came out of the cottage again presently with a traveling wrap of gray fox and sable; a rare and costly fur even for a man of wealth--a wrap which many a lady would have coveted with the fiercest longing. As he was wrapping this round the child, touching it as gently as he had done poor Bessie, Bertie laid his hand upon his arm. “Isn’t that rather extravagant, old fellow?” he said, in a voice too low for the woman to hear. “A blanket would have served the purpose, besides, the father will requisition that the moment he sees it.” Faradeane shrugged his shoulders. “It will keep the little one warm till it gets to the hospital. That’s where you’re to send it.” He took out his pocketbook, and, tearing out a sheet, wrote a few lines on it. “Take the child on to the doctor’s at Wainford, and do as he tells you. He knows me; he is the doctor who is attending Bessie Alford,” he looked round, to explain to Bertie. “Tell him that I will pay what the hospital people demand, and here is some money to go on with. Keep it from your husband--if you can,” he added, grimly. The woman took the paper and the money, and looked from the child, whose wailing seemed already less despairing, to the costly rug, and, lastly, up at the handsome face and the sad eyes regarding her with a grave pity. Her black eyes filled, her lips twitched, but for a moment she seemed speechless; then she looked at Bertie appealingly. “I--I can’t tell him,” she said, piteously. “If it was for myself, I could thank him; but it is for the child, and--and I don’t know; but in my heart,” and she pressed the child to her with a fierce energy, “but I feel it in my heart.” “That’s all right,” said Faradeane, nodding to her, soothingly. “Oh, wait; I must give the doctor your name. What is it?” and he took the paper from her. “Liz Lee,” she said, with a little catch in her breath. He filled it in instantly, and returned the paper to her. She looked at Bertie. “Ask him if he’ll tell me his,” she said, addressing Bertie again instead of Faradeane, as if she could not trust herself to speak to him directly. “Faradeane,” said Bertie; “go and do as my friend tells you.” The woman nodded, and, with a long, steady look at Faradeane, turned down the path and out of the gate. Bertie turned to Faradeane. “That was kind of you, old fellow,” he said. “Just like you, too--so thoughtful and--and considerate.” Faradeane seemed to wake up, as if from a reverie. “My dear Cherub,” he said, banteringly, “why will you try and throw a glamour over a simple bit of charity which really costs me nothing?” “Yes,” said Bertie, “that’s true; it costs you nothing to speak and look so that the woman was too moved to speak and look at you. And you tell me that you have committed a wrong which ought to shut you out of society,” he burst out. Faradeane’s head drooped, and, with a half-suppressed sigh, he laid his hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Hush!” he said. “Let us go in now and get some lunch.”