"You love this little daughter?" the Judge whispered. Monty just shivered again and bowed his head. It was hard to believe he was a murderer. Everything seemed like a dream, with Monty's chest heaving and falling like the pulse of a body's own heart. "You never want her to know of you--anything about you?" asked the Judge. "No," choked Monty. "Never!" "Every man has good in him," said the Judge slowly. "You had better go--now!" Without a word, then, Monty got up and went. He did not rush off like the reporter. He stopped and touched the baby's dirty little dress with the tips of his fingers. And then he went, and the front door closed slowly and creaked, and the screen door closed slowly and creaked, and his shoes came down slowly on the walk and creaked, and the iron gate-latch creaked. I went to the window and looked out one side of the flapping curtain, and I saw Monty Cranch move along the fence and raise his arms and stop and move again. In the moonlight, with its queer shadows, he still looked like half man and half ape, scuttling away to some place where everything is lost in nothing. "We can't do anything more to-night," said the Judge, touching my shoulder. "Take the child upstairs." "Yes, sir," said I. "Stop!" he said huskily. "Let me look at her. What is in that body? What is in that soul? What is it marked with? What a mystery!" "It is, indeed," I answered. "They look so much alike when they come into the world," he said, talking to himself. "So much alike! I thought it was Julianna." "And yet--" I said. He wiped his tortoise-shell glasses as he looked at me and nodded. "I shall not go to bed now," said he. "I shall stay down here. Give the child clean clothing. And then to-morrow--" I felt the warmth of the little body in the curve of my arm and whether for its own sake or its father's, I do not know, but my heart was big for it. In spite of my feeling and the water in my eyes, I shut my teeth. "To-morrow," I said. How little we knew. How little I knew, for after I had washed the child, laid it in the big vacant bed, and blown out the candle, I remember I stood there in the dark beside little Julianna's crib with my thoughts not on the child at all. It was the ghost of Monty Cranch that walked this way and that in front of me, sometimes looking into my eyes and saying, "What are _you_ doing here?" and other times running up through the meadow away from his crime and again standing before a great shining Person and saying, "What I am, I was born; what I am, I must be." I went downstairs once that night and peeked in through the curtains. The Judge was at his desk with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes looking out from under his heavy eyebrows, as if he had the puzzle of the world in front of him and was almost afraid. I thought of how tired he must be and of what a day it had been for all of us.