A laugh quick and soon smothered, disturbed the surrounding gloom. “You told him I loved you! Well, that is good; I do love you; love you as I do my own eyes that I could crush, crush, for ever having lingered on the face of my betrayer!” The last phrase was muttered, and did not seem to convey any impression to the child. “Hold out your arms and catch me,” cried he; “I am going to jump.” She appeared to comply; for he gave a little ringing laugh that was startlingly clear and fresh. “He asked me what your name was,” babbled he, as he nestled in her arms. “He is always asking what your name is; Dad forgets, Dad does; or else it’s because he’s never seen you.” “And what did you tell him?” she asked, ignoring the last remark with an echo of her sarcastic laugh. “Mrs. Smith, of course.” She threw back her head and her whole form acquired an aspect that made Mr. Sylvester shudder. “That’s good,” she cried, “Mrs. Smith by all means.” Then with a sudden lowering of her face to his—“Mrs. Smith is good to you, isn’t she; lets you sit by her fire when she has any, and gives you peanuts to eat and sometimes spares you a penny!” “Yes, yes,” the boy cried. “Come then,” she said, “let’s go home.” She put him down on the floor, and gave him his little crutch. Her manner was not unkind, and yet Mr. Sylvester trembled as he saw the child about to follow her. “Didn’t you ever have any little boys?” the child suddenly asked. The woman shrank as if a burning steel had been plunged against her breast. Looking down on the frightened child, she hissed out from between her teeth, “Did he tell you to ask me that? Did he dare—” She stopped and pressed her arms against her swelling heart as if she would smother its very beats. “Oh no, of course he didn’t tell you; what does he know or care about Mrs. Smith!” Then with a quick gasp and a wild look into the space before her, “My child dead, and her child alive and beloved! What wonder that I hate earth and defy heaven!” She caught the boy by the hand and drew him quickly away. “You will be good to me,” he cried, frightened by her manner yet evidently fascinated too, perhaps on account of the faint sparks of kindness that alternated with gusts of passion he did not understand. “You won’t hurt me; you’ll let me sit by the fire and get warm?” “Yes, yes.” “And eat a bit of bread with butter on it?” “Yes, yes.” “Then I’ll go.” She drew him down the hall. “Why do you like to have me come to your house?” he prattled away. She turned on him with a look which unfortunately Mr. Sylvester could not see. “Because your eyes are so blue and your skin is so white; they make me remember her!” “And who is _her_?” She laughed and seemed to hug herself in her rage and bitterness. “Your mother!” she cried, and in speaking it, she came upon Mr. Sylvester. He at once put out his hand.