“Of course I will do it,” said John; “anything--whatever she may require of me--there are no two words about that. There is only one thing: I will not compromise her by taking any initiative. Let us wait and see what they are going to do----” “But, John, might it not be better to disarm him by making overtures? anything, I would do anything if he would but let her remain unmolested--and the baby.” “Do you mean money?” he said. Mrs. Dennistoun gave him an abashed look, deprecatory and wistful, but did not make any reply. “Phil Compton is a cad, and a brute, and a scamp of the first water,” said John, glad of some way to get rid of his excitement; “but I do not think that even he would sell his wife and his child for money. I wouldn’t do him so much discredit as that.” “Oh, I beg your pardon, John,” Mrs. Dennistoun said. CHAPTER XXVI. John left the Cottage next morning with the full conduct of the affairs of the family placed in his hands. The ladies were both a little doubtful if his plan was the best--they were still frightened for what might happen, and kept up a watch, as John perceived, fearing every step that approached, trembling at every shadow. They remembered many stories, such as rush to the minds of persons in trouble, of similar cases, of the machinations of the bad father whose only object was to overcome and break down his wife, and who stole his child away to let it languish and die. There are some circumstances in which people forget all the shades of character, and take it for granted that a man who can go wrong in one matter will act like a very demon in all. This was doubly strong in Mrs. Dennistoun, a woman full of toleration and experience; but the issues were so momentous to her, and the possible results so terrible, that she lost her accustomed good sense. It was more natural, perhaps, that Elinor, who was weak in health and still full of the arbitrariness of youth, should entertain this fear--without considering that Phil was the very last man in the world to burden himself with an infant of the most helpless age--which seemed to John an almost quite unreasonable one. Almost--for, of course, he too was compelled to allow, when driven into a corner, that there was nothing that an exasperated man might not do. Elinor had come down early to see her cousin before he left the house, bringing with her in her arms the little bundle of muslin and flannel upon the safety of which her very life seemed to depend. John looked at it, and at the small pink face and unconscious flickering hands that formed the small centre to all those wrappings, with a curious mixture of pity and repugnance. It was like any other blind new-born kitten or puppy, he thought, but not so amusing--no, it was not blind, to be sure. At one moment, without any warning, it suddenly opened a pair of eyes, which by a lively exercise of fancy might be supposed like Elinor’s, and seemed to look him in the