The woman rearranged the coverings of the little crooked legs.

"Won't you look at your lady before they put her in her coffin?" she said
when she had done.

"What good would that do her? She's past caring!--No, I won't: why should
I? Such sights are not pleasant."

"The coffin's a lonely chamber, sir Wilton; lonely to lie all day and all
night in!"

"No lonelier for one than for another!" he replied, with an involuntary
recoil from his own words. For the one thing a man must believe--yet
hardly believes--is, that he shall one day die. "She'll be better without
me, anyhow!"

"You are heartless, sir Wilton!"

"Mind your own business. If I choose to be heartless, I may have my
reasons. Take the child away."

Still she did not move. The baby, young as he was, had thrown the blanket
from his face, and the father's eyes were fixed on it: while he gazed the
nurse would not stir. He seemed fascinated by its ugliness. Without
absolute deformity, the child was indeed as unsightly as infant well
could be.

"My God!" he said again--for he had a trick of crying out as if he had a
God--"the little brute hates me! Take it away, woman. Take it away before
I strangle it! I can't answer for myself if it keeps on looking at me!"