There was nothing to be done. She would have to take him back again, always. Whatever shame he dragged her through, she must take him back again, for the child's sake. Suddenly she remembered Peggy's birthday. It was only last week. Surely she had not known then. She must have forgotten for a time. Then tenderness came, and with it an intolerable anguish. She was smitten and was melted; she was torn and melted again. Her throat was shaken, convulsed; then her bosom, then her whole body. She locked her teeth, lest her sobs should break through and wake the child. She lay thus tormented, till a memory, sharper than imagination, stung her. She saw her husband carrying the sleeping child, and his face bending over her with that look of love. She closed her eyes, and let the tears rain down her hot cheeks and fall upon her breast and in her hair. She tried to stifle the sobs that strangled her, and she choked. That instant the child's lips were on her face, tasting her tears. "Oh, mummy, you're crying." "No, my pet. Go to sleep." "Why are you crying?" Anne made no sound; and Peggy cried out in terror. "Mummy--is daddy dead?" Anne folded her in her arms. "No, my pet, no." "He is, mummy, I know he is. Daddy! Daddy!" If Majendie had been in the house she would have carried the child into his room, and shown him to her, and relieved her of her terror. She had done that once before when she had cried for him. But now Peggy cried persistently, vehemently; not loud, but in an agony that tore and tortured her as she had seen her mother torn and tortured. She cried till she was sick; and still her sobs shook her, with a sharp mechanical jerk that would not cease. Gradually she grew drowsy and fell asleep. All night Anne lay awake beside her, driven to the edge of the bed, that she might give breathing space to the little body that pushed, closer and closer, to the warm place she made. Towards dawn Peggy sighed three times, and stretched her limbs, as if awakening out of her sleep. Then Anne turned, and laid her hands on the dead body of her child. CHAPTER XXXIII The yacht had lain all night in Fawlness creek. Majendie had slept on board. He had sent Steve up to the farm with a message for Maggie. He had told her not to expect him that night. He would call and see her very early in the morning. That would prepare her for the end. In the morning he would call and say good-bye to her. He had taken that resolution on the night when Gardner had told him about Peggy. He did not sleep. He heard all the sounds of the land, of the river, of the night, and of the dawn. He heard the lapping of the creek water against the yacht's side; the wash of the steamers passing on the river; the stir of wild fowl at daybreak; the swish of wind and water among the reeds and grasses of the creek. All night he thought of Peggy, who would not live, who was the child of her father's passion and her mother's grief.