“Let us go in,” he whispered. We entered softly: the apartment was darkened, but a dainty crib which occupied the centre of the floor could be dimly seen. As we stepped in, his nurse, who was bending over the cot, moved with hushed footsteps away to give us room. There he lay, my dear, sick lamb! I was so glad to be permitted to see him. But the result of no ordinary sickness met my eye. Great purple rings had settled around his closed eyelids, his lips were blue, his sweet mouth partly opened, he seemed to breathe with difficulty. I could not speak. Mr. Bristed turned down the coverlet from the little shoulders. “Look, Miss Reef,” said he hoarsely, his voice quivering with agitation, pointing to some hideous marks on the little sufferer’s throat--“those are _his_ finger marks.” I sickened. What crime was this that he hinted at so strangely? But the insinuation was too incredible. The thought that he was working on my credulity exasperated me. “If you want me to leave your house, Mr. Bristed, command me and I will go, but you cannot force me to believe this horrid inference.” He must have felt the disdain with which I spurned him, for he turned upon his heel and left the room. I then spoke to Herbert. At the sound of my voice he moved, and I seated myself by his side. Quietness seemed desirable, and I was not inclined to break it. Now and then I moistened his lips with a little wine and water. Seeing that I still sat by the crib, the nurse lay down upon a settee and fell asleep. Hours thus passed. The days were short and twilight came on rapidly. Sitting there in the gathering gloom, I began to hum inadvertently a little song which Herbert loved me to sing to him. Hearing my voice chant his favorite ditty, the poor little creature stirred in his crib, and his pale lips parted into a smile. Presently, in broken tones he asked, “Is that Miss Reef?” “Yes, Herbert, darling, I have come to sing to you,” said I, mastering my emotions and chirruping more loudly his beloved song. The effect seemed truly magical--he endeavored to raise up his little body. “Oh sing it again,” he cried. “Would you like to sit upon my knee?” He nodded assent, and I made an effort to lift him up, but he was weak and heavy, and I not sufficiently strong to sustain him. As he fell back, my eyes caught sight again of those fearful marks. Some power outside of myself forced me to ask, “Herbert, what ails your throat; has any one hurt you?” At the question, a tremor fearful to witness passed through his frame, and looking at me with an expression of preternatural intelligence, he whispered, “He tried to choke me.” Stunned with horror at this again repeated assertion, I sank down and buried my face in my hands. I could think but one thought, and that was a wish that I were dead! CHAPTER VII