rescued her, and yet--and yet--what harm has the _child_ done, that he
should wish for her death like this.

Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of--not
Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it
all mean.

A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes
aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to
push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so
gravely. 'Mummy says,' she begins, 'that she doesn't know who I is,
I'se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.'

Paul returns quickly, 'Is this true?' he asks.

'Yes,' she replies slowly, 'quite true, I found her, and was never able
to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.'

'Three years, have you kept her,' he says, 'you! a woman with a past
like yours, how--'

'Spare me! spare me!' she cries, 'have I not suffered enough, am I not
suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I
have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful
face has often stayed me from.... Last year, I thought I would go and
seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a
girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say,
"Poor woman, how ill she looks!" and I dared not speak to you; death was
what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl's voice
haunted me. "Poor woman," aye indeed! I _was_ to be pitied; I had done