Lying against his shoulder, Stella whispered a few halting sentences. "It--happened so suddenly. The Rajah drives so fiercely--like a man possessed. And the car skidded on the hill. Netta Ermsted was in it, and she screamed, and I--I was terrified because Tessa--Tessa--brave mite--sprang in front of me. I don't know what she thought she could do. I think partly she was angry, and lost her head. And she meant--to help--to protect me--somehow. After that, I fainted--and when I came round, they had brought me back here. That was ever so long ago." She shuddered convulsively. "I've been through a lot since then." Monck's teeth closed upon his lip. He had not suspected an accident. Tremulously Stella went on. "It--was so much too soon. I was--dreadfully--afraid for the poor wee baby. But the doctor said--the doctor said--it was all right--only small. And oh, Everard--" her voice thrilled again with a quivering joy--"it is a boy. I so wanted--a son--for you." "God bless you!" he said almost inarticulately, and kissed her white face again burningly, even with violence. She smiled at his intensity, though it made her gasp. "I know--I know--you will be great," she said. "And--your son--must carry on your greatness. He shall learn to love--the Empire--as you do. We will teach him together--you and I." "Ah!" Monck said, and drew the hard breath of a man struggling in deep waters. Mrs. Ralston returned softly with a white bundle in her arms, and Stella's hold relaxed. Her heavy lids brightened eagerly. "My dear," Mrs. Ralston said, "the doctor has commanded me to turn your husband out immediately. He must just peep at the darling baby and go." "Tell him to go himself--to blazes!" said Monck forcibly, and then reached up, still curiously grim to Mrs. Ralston's observing eyes, and, without rising from his knees, took his child into his arms. He laid it against the mother's breast, and tenderly uncovered the tiny, sleeping face. "Oh, Everard!" she said. And Mrs. Ralston turned away with a little sob. She did not believe any longer that Stella would die. The sweet, thrilling happiness of her voice seemed somehow to drive out the very thought of death. She had never in her life seen any one so supremely happy. But yet--though she was reassured--there was something else in the atmosphere that disturbed her. She could not have said wherefore, but she was sorry for Monck--deeply, poignantly sorry. She was certain, with that inner conviction that needs no outer evidence, that it was more than weariness and the strain of anxiety that had drawn those deep lines about his eyes and mouth. He looked to her like a man who had been smitten down in the pride of his strength, and who knew his case to be hopeless.