her arm, while the swift rolling cars bore them farther and farther
away from the home she was leaving. Is it just to the child?
Distinctly did this thought present itself in her mind. For a long
time she mused over it, her feelings all the while growing more and
more tender, until something like repentance for the step she had
taken found its way into her mind--not for what she was herself
suffering, but for the sake of her child. She had not thought of the
effect upon little Mary, until the pain of absence showed itself in
complaint.

This idea arose clearly before her--she could not push it aside;
and, the more she pondered it, the more troubled did she become,
from a new source. Would not the separation so deeply afflict the
child as to rob her of all happiness?

While these thoughts had full possession of the mother's mind, Mary
slept on and dreamed of her father, as was evident from the fact
that, more than once, she murmured his name.

When night came down, its effect upon Mrs. Lane was more sadly
depressing, for it brought her into a clearer realization of her
unhappy condition. Where was she going? What was the uncertain
future to bring forth? All was as dark as the night that had closed
around her.

At length the cars reached Bristol, and it became necessary to leave
them, and pass into the boat. In lifting Mary in her arms, to bear
her from the cars, the child again murmured the name of her father,
which so affected Mrs. Lane, that her tears gushed forth in spite of
her efforts to restrain them. Letting her veil fall over her face to