She was a small woman, with a small, hard mouth. Usually it was firmly set, but to-night it trembled with her trembling chin. The judge noted that the old dress she wore, long discarded, was wet; that her hair lay damp against her forehead. Her hands, too, were wet, as she held them out to the flames. "Where's the doctor?" she asked. "Gone, for a little." "And Lillias?" "She has been quiet for some time. But you have been with her; you should know." "No," the woman answered, "I have been acting for Lillias while you two have gaped and talked and risked her future with every hour. Something has been done." "Yes?" The man of the house found his heart beating fast, but he put his question quietly, deliberately. "You have had many plans. Which have you used?" "I've hidden it; hidden her shame. It can never cross her path in this world." "What do you mean?" "Oh, I've not committed murder." She clenched her trembling hands together. "Not that it mightn't be the best thing. But it's buried, buried. You will never see it again." "Buried?" "Buried from the world into which it was born. Hidden in the sure way that one in the South can hide. I did it myself," she went on in a whisper. "I put some money in its dress and carried it in my arms that no one might know. I went through the alleys over the slippery road. The blacks' cabin was empty, and I hid it on the bed." "God! A white child! And you did this thing!" The man of the house for a moment faced his wife as judge. "Yes," she answered, looking full into his stern face. "I left it there. And I was right, I was right! You wanted to do something to hide the disgrace. You said you did, you and the doctor both. But you talked and talked, and sat here by the fire. Well, something is done now. We've saved our daughter from disgrace. Let the baby begin an outcast. It's better than becoming one at eighteen." Then of a sudden her strength left her, and she fell, sobbing, into a chair. "You'll tell her, George?" she asked after a few moments. "She will know it's for the best. But you are so quiet and gentle, and she must have no shock." "Yes," he answered slowly, "she must have no shock, but she will mind very much. If she cries bitterly, may I bring it back?" "No, no!" His wife faced him in arms again. And then, more quietly, "For her sake, no." "For her sake," he repeated to himself, and left the room. As he walked up the stairs a great dog rose from where it lay in the hallway and, following, rubbed his nose in his master's hand. "Go back!" he commanded as he reached the door of the south room. "Likely you'll be a comfort later, but go back now." He went to the side of the bed and found his daughter lying, her eyes wide open, looking out on the rain. He laid his hand gently upon her head and she drew it down and kissed it. She had always known that he would never fail her in his tender sympathy. "The baby has slept a long time," she whispered. "Bring it to me, please."