Mrs. Barry, furious that she had been so deceived, broke the hush with a sarcastic laugh. “Ha, ha, not married, eh?” she cackled. “Well, I should think you would be ashamed to own it as you have a child to call you mother!” Louise repulsed the child’s caress, and it began to sob. “Dear mamma, why are you angry, why have you stayed so long away from your Lucy?” she cried, tearfully, and the sight of the grieved baby face, the sound of reproach in the child’s voice went to Louise’s heart. The motherhood in her was touched irresistibly, and after a brief struggle with herself she held out her arms, and little Lucy sprang joyously into them, and the mother hid her shamed face against the little, sunny head. At that sight John Keith went slowly forward and touched her hand. “Louise, be honest,” he said, huskily. “Acknowledge now that you were once my wife, that this is our child!” Realizing that nothing else remained to her now, she looked up and answered, sullenly: “I am your wife still, John Keith, I lied to you about the divorce. My application failed, although I sent you a fraudulent notice that the divorce was granted.” “You had better go away with him then, for you will never be admitted into Ferndale again. You are the first Barry that ever disgraced the family and I wash my hands of you forever!” piped up Mrs. Barry’s shrill treble. Louise gave her an angry scowl, but John Keith again touched her hand. “Take her advice, Louise,” he said, not unkindly. “Come away with me. Your fine friends will all desert you now as you deserve, but I will forgive you for our child’s sake. I can give you a home of comfort now in the far South, and you will at least be hidden from the sight of all those who know the history of your wicked ambitions.” She caught eagerly at the offered refuge. “I will go with you,” she answered, with a shamed and sullen air. CHAPTER XLV. A thrill of admiration for John Keith’s magnanimity ran along the nerves of every one, and Cecil Laurens felt shamed and remorseful. “He carries out to the letter his promise to love and cherish her for better or worse,” he thought. “Alas, that I did not do so with my poor little girl-bride, whose youth might have been some excuse for her faults. Shall I ever find her again, and, if so, will she forgive me for my coldness and distrust?” He looked fixedly at Louise, who nestled close to her husband’s side, as if finding in his fidelity some comfort under the storm of indignation that had burst on her head. “Madame,” he said, coldly, “perhaps you carried your treachery so far that you were the cause of my young wife’s flight from The Acacias. Perhaps you could tell me, if you would, where to find her now?” She started and flushed crimson, flashing him a sullen, angry glance. “I can not,” she answered, bitterly. “You mean that you will not,” he said, and she nodded defiantly.