child, who was still in a dead sleep, wrapped him in an old shawl, and
stole with him from the room.

Like those of a thief--or murderess rather, her scared eyes looked on
this side and that, as she crept to a narrow stair that led to the
kitchen. She knew every turn and every opening in this part of the house:
for weeks she had been occupied, both intellect and imagination, with the
daring idea she was now carrying into effect.

She reached the one door that might yield a safe exit, unlocked it
noiselessly, and stood in a little paved yard with a pump, whence another
door in an ivy-covered wall opened into the kitchen-garden. The moon
shone large and clear, but the shadow of the house protected her. It was
the month of August, warm and still. If only it had been dark! Outside
the door she was still in the shadow. For the first time in her life she
loved the darkness. Along the wall she stole as if clinging to it. Yet
another door led into a shrubbery surrounding the cottage of the
head-gardener, whence a back-road led to a gate, over which she could
climb, so to reach the highway, along whose honest, unshadowed spaces she
must walk miles and miles before she could even hope herself safe.

She stood at length in the broad moonlight, on the white, far-reaching
road. Her heart beat so fast as almost to stifle her. She dared not look
down at the child, lest some one should see her and look also! The moon
herself had an aspect of suspicion! Why did she keep staring so? For an
instant she wished herself back in the nursery. But she knew it would
only be to do it all over again: it _had_ to be done! Leave the child of
her sister where he was counted in the way! with those who hated him!
where his helpless life was in danger! She could not!