Did minutes or hours go by? She never knew as she steadied her soul against the rushing, headlong waves of memory that threatened to engulf her in its chilling tide. She had put the past away from her in the excitement of other pursuits and other aims, and now--now it came back, relentless, remorseless, sweeping her quivering heart-strings, atuning all her sensitive nerves to pain. _Would_ he come? Her helpless heart throbbed a passive denial. _If_ he came, as Lulu had asked her, _would_ she be glad? She scarcely knew. She loved him--loved him with a pure, deep love that having once given its pledge to last till death, no earthly power could alter. Hers was a very strong and faithful devotion, but human resentment must hold a small place in the human breast as long as life lasts. And Grace Winans, brave, patient, tried by fire as she had been, was still only mortal. If he came, strengthened, purified, enobled by suffering and sad experience, they must still meet, she thinks, with a sharp heart-pang, as over a _grave_--the grave of their child; the winsome baby whom she sees in fancy at his childish play on the nursery rug, toddling over the floor, laughing in her arms, catching at her long, bright curls--what shall she say to the man whose folly has deprived her of all this joy, when he comes to ask forgiveness? "God help me!" she moans, and drops her hopeless head upon her hands. "Gracie!" Does her heart deceive her ears? She glances shyly up, sees _him_ standing not three feet from her, and he lifts the little child by his side, and tossing him into the crib, growing too small for his boyish proportions, says, wistfully: "Gracie, I have brought him back to you to plead his father's cause." One long look into the boyish beauty of that face that has not outgrown its infantile bloom, and her arms are about the little form, though silent in her joy as in her grief no word escapes her lips. "Mamma, my own lovely mamma!" the little boy lisps, tutored thereto no doubt by his father's wisdom, and her only answer is in raining kisses, smiles and tears. It is so long before she thinks of the silent father that when she turns it is only to find him kneeling at her feet. On the dusk beauty of that proud face she sees the sharp traces of suffering, weariness, almost hopelessness. He takes the small hand that falls passive to her side, touching it lightly to his feverish lips. "Gracie," she hears in the low, strong accents of despair, "there is nothing I can say for myself--I am at your foot to hear my doom! Whatever you accord me, it cannot be utter despair, since I am blessed beyond measure in having looked even once more on your beloved face."