“There, you have but a moment left for decision,” said the gentleman; “that is the train we must take. Will you sacrifice your child’s welfare or your own feelings?” She was now seated beside the table, her child asleep in her arms. He laid the deed of gift he had made out before her as he spoke, and put a pen between her fingers. She lifted her eyes to his with a look of wild anguish fit to move a heart of stone. He simply pointed to the unconscious babe. She looked at it, seized the pen, hurriedly scrawled a name at the foot of the deed, and fell back fainting. But the shrill whistle of the locomotive and the thunder of the train close at hand aroused her. “We must go now; let me take her,” Mrs. Kemper was saying in tones tremulous with great compassion. “I will love her dearly, dearly; I will cherish her as the apple of my eye. Let me wrap this warm shawl around her.” “No, Dolly, I’ll carry her,” Mr. Kemper said, in a tone of half-suppressed delight, as he finished buttoning up his overcoat after safely depositing the note-book, with the deed of gift, in an inner pocket. But silently the mother put them both aside. There was agony in her wan, emaciated face. She could not speak for the choking in her throat; but she strained the child to her heart, laid her cold white cheek to its warm and rosy face and kissed it passionately again and again. “We must go,” repeated Mrs. Kemper. “Oh, my heart aches for you, but we _must_ go!” “We must indeed, poor thing! there’s not a moment to be lost,” added Mr. Kemper, taking the child from her with gentle force. “Here, this will supply your needs while you live, I think,” putting a roll of notes into her hand. She dropped them as if a serpent had stung her, and with a wild cry rushed after him, as, hastily wrapping a shawl about the infant, he ran with it toward the train, his wife close behind him. They had already tarried almost too long; had scarcely time to gain the platform of the nearest car ere the train swept swiftly on its way. “My child, my child! give me back my child!” shrieked the distracted mother, pursuing with outstretched arms, the storm beating pitilessly on her uncovered head, her long, dark hair streaming in the wind. For a moment she seemed to fly over the ground, love and despair lending her unnatural strength and speed; the next--as the train was lost to sight in the depths of the forest--she tottered and would have fallen but for the strong arm of a kindly switchman, who, hastily setting down his lantern, sprang forward just in time to save her. “She’s in a dead faint, poor thing!” he muttered to himself. “Here, Bill,” to a comrade, “take a holt and help me to carry her into the depot.” “Who is she, Jack? an’ what ails her?” asked Bill, hurrying up and holding his lantern high, while he peered curiously into the white, unconscious face. “No time to talk till we git her in out o’ the wet,” returned Jack gruffly. They laid her down on the settee.