him with kisses. His child remained to him, at any rate! What did the
rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips to his light
hair, and, relieved and composed, he whispered:

"George--my little George--my dear little George----"
But he suddenly remembered what Julie had said! Yes, she had said that he
was Limousin's child. Oh! it could not be possible, surely. He could not
believe it, could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own
child. It was one of those low scandals which spring from servants'
brains! And he repeated: "George--my dear little George." The
youngster was quiet again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate through his clothes,
and it filled him with love, courage, and happiness; that gentle warmth
soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the small, curly
head away from him a little, and looked at it affectionately, still
repeating: "George! Oh, my little George!" But suddenly he thought:

"Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, after all!" He looked at him with
haggard, troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was any
likeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth, or cheeks. His thoughts
wandered as they do when a person is going mad, and his child's face
changed in his eyes, and assumed a strange look and improbable
resemblances.

The hall bell rang. Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone through
him. "There she is," he said. "What shall I do?" And he ran and locked
himself up in his room, to have time to bathe his eyes. But in a few
moments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then he
remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid knowing it, and so