“I don’t know; I only know that it did,” was the contradictory, almost absurd, reply. “What was the cause of the quarrel you speak of between your husband and yourself? You see, I must know the exact truth and all the truth to be of any assistance to you.” “It was--it was about the care I gave, or didn’t give, the baby. I feel awfully to have to say it, but George did not think I did my full duty by the child. He said there was no need of its crying so; that if I gave it the proper attention it would not keep the neighbours and himself awake half the night. And I--I got angry and insisted that I did the best I could; that the child was naturally fretful and that if he wasn’t satisfied with my way of looking after it, he might try his. All of which was very wrong and unreasonable on my part, as witness the awful punishment which followed.” “And what made you get up and leave him?” “The growl he gave me in reply. When I heard that, I bounded out of bed and said I was going to the spare room to sleep; and if the baby cried he might just try what he could do himself to stop it.” “And he answered?” “This, just this--I shall never forget his words as long as I live--‘If you go, you need not expect me to let you in again no matter what happens.’” “He said that?” “And locked the door after me. You see I could not tell all that.” “It might have been better if you had. It was such a natural quarrel and so unprovocative of actual tragedy.” Mrs. Hammond was silent. It was not difficult to see that she had no very keen regrets for her husband personally. But then he was not a very estimable man nor in any respect her equal. “You were not happy with him,” Violet ventured to remark. “I was not a fully contented woman. But for all that he had no cause to complain of me except for the reason I have mentioned. I was not a very intelligent mother. But if the baby were living now--O, if he were living now--with what devotion I should care for him.” She was on her feet, her arms were raised, her face impassioned with feeling. Violet, gazing at her, heaved a little sigh. It was perhaps in keeping with the situation, perhaps extraneous to it, but whatever its source, it marked a change in her manner. With no further check upon her sympathy, she said very softly: “It is well with the child.” The mother stiffened, swayed, and then burst into wild weeping. “But not with me,” she cried, “not with me. I am desolate and bereft. I have not even a home in which to hide my grief and no prospect of one.” “But,” interposed Violet, “surely your husband left you something? You cannot be quite penniless?”