"Hush!" The feeling in that word was not for him. I felt it at once; it was for her secret, threatened every instant she lingered there by some move, by some word which might escape a thoughtless child. "You do not understand me, Justin. You talk with no comprehension of myself or of the event. Six months from now, if all goes well, you will see that I have been kind, not cruel. I can not say any more; I should not have said so much. Go back, dear friend, and let me take the train with Harry. The sea is not impassable. We shall meet again, and then--" Did she pause to look behind her down those steps--to make some gesture of caution to the uneasy child?--"you will forgive me for what seems cruelty to you now. I can not do differently. With all the world weeping over the doubtful fate of this little child, you can not expect me to--to make any promise conditional upon her _death_." The man's cry drove the irony of the situation out of my mind. "Puerilities! all puerilities. A man's life--soul--are worth some sacrifices. If you loved me--" A quick ingathering of his breath, then a low moan, then the irrepressible cry she vainly sought to hush, "O Valerie, you are silent! You do not love me! Two years of suffering! two years of repression, then this delirium of hope, of possibility, and you _silent_! I will trouble you no more. Gwendolen alive or Gwendolen dead, what is it to me! I--" "Hush! there is no doubt on that topic; the child is _dead_. Let that be understood between us." This was whispered, and whispered very low, but the air seemed breathless at that moment and I heard her. "This is my last word to you. You will have your fortune, whether you have my love or not. Remember that, and--" "Auntie, make Dinah move away; I want to see the man you are talking to." Gwendolen had spoken. XXIII A CORAL BEAD "What's that?" It was Mr. Rathbone who first found voice. "To what a state have I come when in every woman's face, even in hers who is dearest, I see expressions I no longer understand, and in every child's voice catch the sound of Gwendolen's?" "Harry's voice is not like Gwendolen's," came in desperate protest from the ready widow. A daring assertion for her to make to him who had often held this child in his arms for hours together. "You are not yourself, Justin. I am sorry. I--I--" Almost she gave her promise, almost she risked her future, possibly his, by saying, under the stress of her fears, what her heart did not prompt her to, when-- A quick move on her part, a low cry on his, and he came rushing up the steps. I had advanced at her hesitating words and shown myself. When Mr. Rathbone was well up the terrace (he hardly honored me with a look as he went by), I slowly began my descent to where she stood with her back toward me and her arms thrown round the child she had evidently called to her in her anxiety to conceal the little beaming face from this new intruder.