“You _have_ tried it, Pullen, in a mild form, and it has had its effect on you! You are not the same fellow who came over to Heyst, though by all rules, you should be looking better and stronger for the change. And Margaret has already complained to me of the strange effect this girl has had upon her! But you must not breathe a suspicion to her concerning the child’s illness, or I verily believe she would murder Miss Brandt!” “Putting all this nonsense aside,” said Ralph, “do you consider Margaret’s baby to be seriously ill?” “Very seriously. My medicines have not had the slightest effect upon her condition, which is inexplicable. Her little life is being slowly sapped. She may cease to breathe at any moment. But I have not yet had the courage to tell your sister the truth!” “How disappointed poor Arthur will be!” “Yes! but his grief will be nothing to the mother’s. She is quite devoted to her child!” By mutual consent, they had dropped the subject of Harriet Brandt, and now spoke only of family affairs. Ralph was a kind-hearted fellow under all his conceit, and felt very grave at the prospect held out in regard to his baby niece. The fulfilment of the prophecy came sooner than even Doctor Phillips had anticipated. As they were all sitting at dinner that evening, Madame Lamont, her eyes over-brimming with tears, rushed unceremoniously into the _salle à manger_, calling to Margaret. “Madame! Madame! please come up to your room at once! The dear baby is worse!” Margaret threw one agonised glance at Doctor Phillips and rushed from the room, followed by himself and Elinor Leyton. The high staircase seemed interminable--more than once Margaret’s legs failed under her and she thought she should never reach the top. But she did so all too soon. On the bed was laid the infant form, limp and lifeless, and Martin the nurse met them at the door, bathed in tears. “Oh! Ma’am!” she cried, “it happened all of a minute! She was lying on my lap, pretty dear, just as usual, when she went off in a convulsion and died.” “Died, died!” echoed Margaret in a bewildered voice, “Doctor Phillips! _who_ is it that has died?” “The baby, Ma’am, the dear baby! She went off like a lamb, without a struggle! O! dear mistress, do try to bear it!” “Is my baby--_dead_?” said Margaret in the same dazed voice, turning to the doctor who had already satisfied himself that the tiny heart and pulse had ceased to beat. “No! my dear child, she is not dead--she is living--with God! Try to think of her as quite happy and free from this world’s ill.” “O! but I _wanted_ her so--I _wanted_ her,” exclaimed the bereaved mother, as she clasped the senseless form in her arms, “O! baby! baby! why did you go, before you had seen your father?” And then she slid, rather than sank, from the bedside, in a tumbled heap upon the floor.