“It is so hard to be kept in the dark,” she said. “I dream night after night that I myself am on the track of his murderer—sometimes that I meet him face to face—oh, the hideous pallid face—the face of a man who has been hanged and brought to life again. It is always the same kind of face—the same dull livid hue—though it differs as to features, though the man is never the same. You cannot imagine the agony of those dreams, Theodore. Lay that ghost for me, if you can. Make my life peaceful, though it can never be happy.” “Never is a long word, Nita. As the years go by, your child’s love will give life a new colour.” “Yes, he is very dear. He has crept into my heart, little nestling unconscious thing—knowing nothing of my love or my sorrow, and yet seeming to comfort me. I sometimes think my darling’s spirit looks out of those clear eyes. They seem so full of thought—of thought far beyond human wisdom.” Theodore could see that the work of healing was being done, slowly but surely. The gracious influence of a new love was being exercised, and the frozen heart was reviving to life and warmth under the soft touch of those baby fingers. He saw his cousin smile with something of the old brightness as she stood by while Cuthbert Ramsay dandled the little lord of Carmichael Priory in his great strong arms, smiling down at the tiny pink face peeping out of a cloud of lace and muslin. “Any one can see that Mr. Ramsay is fond of children,” said Lady Cheriton, approvingly, as if a liking for infants just short-coated were the noblest virtue of manhood. “Oh, I am fond enough of the little beggars,” answered Cuthbert, lightly. “All the gutter brats about St. Thomas’s know me, and hang on to my coat-tails as I go by. I like to look at a child’s face—those old shrewd London faces especially—and speculate upon the life that lies before those younglings, the things those eyes are to see, the words those lips are to speak. Life is such a tremendous mystery, don’t you know—one can never be tired of wondering about it. But this fellow is going to be very happy, and a great man in the land. He is going to belong to the new order, the order of rich who go through life shoulder to shoulder with the poor; the redressers of wrongs, the adjusters of social levels.” “I hope you are not a Socialist, Mr. Ramsay?” said Lady Cheriton, with an alarmed air.