There was no response--a shiver, subsiding at once: no more than that. "And I would go to see you--quite often." She tried to see his face; but it was hid against her. "It would be better," she whispered, "for you." "Oh, mother," he sobbed, sitting back in her lap, "what would you do without me?" It was a crucial question--so appealing in unselfish love, so vividly portraying her impending desolation, that for an instant her resolution departed. What would she do without him? God knew! But she commanded herself. "I would not have to work," she said. He turned her face to the light--looked deep in her eyes, searching for the truth. She met his glance without wavering. Then, discerning the effect, deliberately, when his eyes were alight with filial love and concern, at the moment when the sacrifice was most clear and most poignant, she lied. "I would be happier," she said, "without you." A moan escaped him. "Will you go with the curate?" she asked. "Yes." He fell back upon her bosom.... There was no delay. 'Twas all done in haste. The night came. Gently the curate took the child from her arms. "Good-bye," she said. "I said I would not cry, mother," he faltered. "I am not crying." "Good-bye, dear." "Mother, I am not crying." "You are very brave," she said, discovering his wish. "Good-bye. Be a good boy." He took the curate's hand. They moved to the door--but there turned and lingered. While the child looked upon his mother, bravely calling a smile to his face, that she might be comforted, there crept into his eyes, against his will, some reproach. Perceiving this, she staggered towards him, but halted at the table, which she clutched: and there stood, her head hanging forward, her body swaying. Then she levelled a finger at the curate. "Take him away, you damn fool!" she screamed. [Illustration: Tailpiece to _Renunciation_] [Illustration: Headpiece to _In the Current_] _IN THE CURRENT_ Seven o'clock struck. It made no impression upon her. Eight o'clock--nine o'clock. It was now dark. Ten o'clock. She did not hear. Still at the window, her elbow on the sill, her chin resting in her hand, she kept watch on the river--but did not see the river: but saw the sea, wind-tossed and dark, where the lights go wide apart. Eleven o'clock. Ghostly moonlight filled the room. The tenement, restless in the summer heat, now sighed and fell asleep. Twelve o'clock. She had not moved: nor dared she move. There was a knock at the door--a quick step behind her. She turned in alarm. "Millie!" She rose. Voice and figure were well known to her. She started forward--but stopped dead. "Is it you, Jim?" she faltered. "Yes, Millie. It's me--come back. You don't feel the way you did before, do you, girl?" He suddenly subdued his voice--as though recollecting a caution. "You ain't going to send me away, are you?" he asked. "Go 'way!" she complained. "Leave me alone." He came nearer.