The two French women were huddled together, not sure of their instructions and obviously alarmed. Margaret looked over at them and gently detached Estelle’s fingers from her draperies. “I’ll come to-morrow,” she said more firmly; “now run and play.” But the child caught at her skirts again, still sobbing; she had felt her mother’s arms about her, and half the dread and fear of desertion which had hung over her, half the talk of the nurses which had frightened her, was swept away; she had a mother. “Oh, mamma,” she sobbed, “take me with you--I won’t make any noise!” Margaret bent and kissed her again, her strange, wild look almost frightening poor Gerty who stood completely discomfited and at a loss, her honest blue eyes full of tears. “There, there!” the mother whispered, “I’m glad you love me, Estelle, I’m coming, coming soon. Oh, Gerty, go home with her!” she added suddenly, “take her away--I--I can’t bear it!” Gerty obeyed with a pale face. She bent down and whispered to Estelle, kissed and cajoled and threatened until the child let go her mother’s skirt and began to cling to the girl whom she really knew far more intimately, for the good-hearted little secretary had spent many an hour in that gloomy, magnificent nursery. Gerty’s hands shook but she held the child, told her about some lovely things she was going to bring her, a doll, a fairy-book, a toy which ran about the floor of its own accord. In the midst of it Margaret turned and fled; she had not dared to go to the little boy, although, quite unacquainted with his mother, he was merely staring in a dull, infantile way, his finger in his mouth, ready, no doubt, to raise a sympathetic wail if his sister’s grief warranted a chorus. The mother, whose rights in the children had been settled by the courts at six months in the year if she desired it, went on blindly along the sunny avenue which seemed now to mock her with its gayety. She turned sharply away from a crowded circle into another street, hardly conscious where she went, but bent upon escape, oblivion, silence. The child’s cry had touched her chilled and starving heart; she saw her life revealed; she had thrust away the ties of nature, the demands of natural love and duty in her mad pursuit of happiness; she had lost all and gained nothing. She put up a shaking hand and drew down her veil; her lips were dry and parched, it was difficult to breathe, she had to relax her pace. Another corner brought her to an abrupt and horrified pause. She came face to face with Mrs. O’Neal at a moment when she felt that she could least abide the sight of any one. But with the shock of recognition her scattered senses recovered themselves, her nerves vibrated again, she summoned back her will.