"Ah, yes! to be sure, the sprig of nobility you thought was too old to die. I've heard of people being too young to die; but you seem to think that one gets a sort of prescriptive right of living, that life's like land out of which one shouldn't be turned if there have been so many years undisputed possession. Droll theory! But I see you are frowning, so I'll try to be serious. Now, what _is_ the difference between killing a baby or a ten-year-older? The latter doesn't feel more pain in the process of being put out of the way; why should his life be considered to be of more value? Why, bless the girl! We must kill all the _heirs_, whatever age they may be. Of course we must kill them as babies if possible, because it is easier to get at them." Mary had been scanning with great curiosity the woman's face as she glibly chattered on in her flippant way. "Susan," she asked, "_have_ you ever killed a child?" "Yes, one," was the prompt reply, delivered in a cool matter-of-fact fashion. "Lately." "No, long ago; not for the cause, before I even joined the Sisterhood, or dreamed of all the theories and plots my head is now chokefull of. It was my own baby." The two women looked at each other, the one with a hard stare of brazen effrontery, the other with an expression of terror and disgust. "Ay!" went on the elder with a voice which, breaking through its usual false ring, was full of malice and bitterness. "Ay! you cream-faced beauty, you are shocked are you? Of course you are right. One should not kill except for the good of the Society, other private killing is objectionable. I know all that. But wait until you have gone through what I have, and see what you will be then...." Changing back to her old light tone she continued, "Ah, Mary! it was the same old story with me as with the rest. A warm temperament"--and she laughed as she made this cool confession--"a warm temperament, a man, and a baby, that's all--and a little tragedy mixed up with it that won't be worth your while to hear about now." Mary had never liked this woman, she now began to conceive an intense dislike for her. Susan would never have converted her to the cause, though she was the very person to win over girls naturally flighty and wicked. But Mary concealed her dislike as much as possible, for she was interested in drawing out this strange being, so wicked, so like a female Mephistopheles, so different in every way to her own ideal, her mistress, Catherine King. "Did you have such a thing as a conscience when you were a little girl, Sister Susan?" she inquired. "I don't know--not much of a one anyhow. I never had the fight you had; and yet your conscience still raises his head now and then. You are full of pities, and scruples, and trashy sentiment. I'll tell you what it is. Mary; I know what you want; I know what will soon make you happier, what will altogether knock on the head that nasty, teasing conscience of yours. Would you like to know what it is?"