“Lord, I suppose so,” murmured Miss Pynsent; while her visitor went on to say that the unfortunate person on whose behalf she had undertaken this solemn pilgrimage might live a week and might live a fortnight, but if she lived a month would violate (as Mrs. Bowerbank might express herself) every established law of nature, being reduced to skin and bone and with nothing left of her but the main desire to see her child. “If you’re afraid of her talking, it isn’t much she’d be able to say. And we shouldn’t allow you more than about eight minutes,” Mrs. Bowerbank pursued in a tone that seemed to refer itself to an iron discipline. “I’m sure I shouldn’t want more; that would be enough to last me many a year,” said Miss Pynsent accommodatingly. And then she added with another illumination: “Don’t you think he might throw it up against me that I _did_ take him? People might tell him about her in later years; but if he hadn’t seen her he wouldn’t be obliged to believe them.” Mrs. Bowerbank considered this a moment as if it were rather an intricate argument, and then answered quite in the spirit of her official pessimism. “There’s one thing you may be sure of: whatever you decide to do, as soon as ever he grows up he’ll make you wish you had done the opposite.” Mrs. Bowerbank called it oppos_ite_. “Oh dear then, I’m glad it will be a long time.” “It will be ever so long, if once he gets it into his head! At any rate you must do as you think best. Only if you come you mustn’t come when it’s all over.” “It’s too impossible to decide.” “It is indeed,” said Mrs. Bowerbank with superior consistency. And she seemed more placidly grim than ever when she remarked, gathering up her loosened shawl, that she was much obliged to Miss Pynsent for her civility and had been quite freshened up: her visit had so completely deprived her hostess of that sort of calm. Miss Pynsent gave the fullest expression to her perplexity in the supreme exclamation: “If you could only wait and see the child I’m sure it would help you to judge!” “My dear woman, I don’t want to judge—it’s none of our business!” Mrs. Bowerbank exclaimed; and she had no sooner uttered the words than the door of the room creaked open and a small boy stood there gazing at her. Her eyes rested on him a moment, and then, most unexpectedly, she gave an inconsequent cry. “Is that the child? Oh, Lord o’ mercy, don’t take _him_!”