Hovering upon the brink of this conviction, she heard a wail from the baby, the pitiful appeal of helplessness to strength. She hurried into the next room, and took the child into her arms, clutching it to her bosom. Lizzie Alfreda was hers, her very own. Till that moment she had regarded the tiny creature, not with indifference, but apathetically, a grandchild by whom she would do her duty. And we know that she had forced herself to believe that Fancy would live to fend for her own child. Could so frail a woman have done so properly? If her wish had been granted, if Death had taken Susan instead of Fancy Yellam, and if Fancy had risen from her bed an enfeebled, anæmic woman, subject to all those maladies which wait on physical debility, could she have "fended" for Lizzie Alfreda? The ice was melting fast now. She fed Lizzie Alfreda and replaced her in the cradle, but the baby still wailed a little, staring at Susan Yellam. She took her up--an action against her principles--soothed her, and immediately the child stopped crying. Susan crooned to her a lullaby which she thought she had forgotten, which had served, long ago, when her own Lizzie was wakeful. And the simple, droning song brought back, vividly, past pleasures. Age dropped from her; she became for a moment a young mother anticipating joyously all that "fending" implied. Soon the child slept. And then the tears came, washing away ice, doubt, despair, cleansing anew a humble and contrite heart. From that undiscovered country, whose existence she had obstinately denied, a traveller had returned. After lighting the kitchen fire, Susan Yellam entered the parlour. She pulled up the blinds and drew the curtains. From her desk, she took a sharp penknife, and tried its edge upon her thumb. Then, reluctantly, as if ashamed, she opened the Bible, intending to erase carefully the last presumptuous entry. She glanced at it, and a sharp exclamation escaped her trembling lips. She put on her spectacles and stared, open-mouthed, at the page in front of her. "Died, December 28th, 1916," was written not, as she had supposed, against the name of Susan Yellam, but against the name of Fancy Yellam. And then she remembered that, in her blind haste to record her own death, she had forgotten to put on her spectacles. And the light, at the time, was failing. The Light was not failing now. She fell upon her knees, bowing her head over the Book. Next Sunday she was in her pew. THE END THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. "K." Illustrated. K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous. THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.