“If only you would be reasonable--if you would repent your absurd suspicions of me last night, and show a woman’s pity for that poor, motherless child,” he said, gently, pleadingly. She hung down her head, and a slight smile parted her scarlet lips. He thought it was one of tender yielding; he did not dream it was of diabolical triumph. “Camille!” he cried, eagerly. Her smiling hazel eyes lifted to his, and she held out her slender, beautiful white hand all glittering with costly rings. He took it and pressed it fondly to his warm lips. “You relent, my darling?” he exclaimed; and she answered, with a coquettish glance: “How can I refuse you anything, Norman? You always conquer my will in the end.” He caught her to his breast, showering thanks and kisses upon her, thankful that the disagreement of last night had not brought about a lasting breach between himself and Camille. As for her, she despised herself for her double-dealing; yet she would have done the same thing over again, and deep down in her heart there remained the same jealous resentment for the stand he had taken against her last night. She glossed it over with smiles and caresses, but the anger was there still--“the little rift within the lute.” All unsuspecting, the young lover-husband accepted her pretended relenting for the truth, and entreated her to go with him at once to his mother’s room. “It is so lovely out here that I hate to go in,” she said, with a sweet, languid smile, for her breath began to come in faint, panting gasps. “Suppose you go, Norman, and bring your little pet out here?” He agreed to do so, and with a parting caress turned away. Beautiful, guilty Camille sunk into a seat, panting with fear. “Oh, what will he say? Will he be very angry? Will he suspect me?” she asked of her wildly beating heart. She knew that she had done wrong, but not for worlds would she have restored the child to her husband, and not for worlds would she have had him cognizant of her sin. All her anxiety was for herself, and she cared nothing for the fate of the lovely child that she had consigned to the hard mercies of Finette. “I do not care what becomes of it so that it never crosses my path again!” she thought, vindictively, and just then she lifted her eyes and saw her husband before her. “Why didn’t you bring the little one with you?” she asked, with pretended anxiety. “Camille, I do not know what to think. Little Sweetheart is gone. She disappeared in some mysterious fashion last right,” he answered, with a groan. “Norman!” amazedly. “It is true,” he said. “I found my mother in the greatest distress. She had slept later than usual this morning, and when she awoke the child was gone.” “Gone!” she echoed, faintly. “Yes. She thought at first that the little one had slipped out and gone down-stairs, but on making inquiries she could find no trace of her anywhere.”