The following mail brought a letter from Mrs. Mayhew. She generally enclosed a little note in her husband’s epistles, but this was a long effusion for a wonder. “Monkswood. “MY DEAR REGINALD, “You will have already seen the birth of your son and heir in the paper, and no doubt were as much astonished as everyone else. For the last six months Alice has lived in the greatest retirement, seeing no one. Two or three times we have asked her to come up to us, and she always excused herself with one ridiculous plea after another. A telegram from the housekeeper last Tuesday brought me down here the same evening, and I found Alice very, very ill--so ill that for several days the doctors were afraid to hold out any hopes of her recovery. I dared not write and tell you this last mail, but waited till this one, in hopes of sending you better news. Her youth and a wonderful constitution have pulled her through, and I may say that she is out of danger, though still extremely weak, and subject to prolonged fainting fits. “The life that she has led for the last few months has been the chief cause of her illness. Morris tells me that she used to walk for hours through the woods in all weathers, and took so little food that it is a wonder she did not die of simple inanition. She never dined, but simply went through the farce of sitting at table breaking up breadcrumbs, sending away the most tempting delicacies untasted. Poor motherless girl, angry as I am with her, I cannot help being sorry for her; she is so innocent, so utterly inexperienced, and so alone in the world--thanks to herself of course. If she had been a trusting wife, how happy and proud you would both be now! She is so good and patient I cannot help loving her, in spite of myself. Her pride in her baby is simply ridiculous, and very touching to see. To hear her, you would think it was the first of its species, or at any rate that nothing so beautiful and so remarkable in every way had ever been born. A mother at eighteen, and looking even younger, I tell her that no one will ever believe the child is hers. She has about as much experience of babies as my Hilda--a baby with a baby. He is a splendid boy, a real Fairfax. If I were to declare that he is like you, you would say, ‘Rubbish, all babies are exactly alike!’ But he _is_ very like you all the same. He is to be called Maurice, after her father, and Mark and I are to be sponsors. I have just asked Alice if she has any message for you, and she has replied in a very low and subdued voice--_none_. I have no patience with her. I should like to take her baby out of her arms and give her _such_ a shaking, only she looks so dreadfully frail and delicate--I really _would_. I need not tell you that now, more than ever, it behoves you to trace the false certificate. It is too provoking that you have not been able to get leave to go to Cheetapore