Noel remained abroad a year and a half and came home at last with a new determination, which he put into effect. This was to begin in earnest the practice of his profession. He was tired of travelling, and even his beloved painting was not enough to satisfy the more demands for occupation and interest, which his of mind and character gave rise to.  
Not very long after his return he went to call on the Dallases. He was informed, on inquiring at the house, that a family of another name now occupied it, and no one could tell where Mr. and Mrs. Dallas had gone. He made at several places in the neighborhood, but in vain.
 
He walked away, with a sad and tender feeling in his heart for the poor foreign girl, whose beauty, youth and childlike charm had taken a strong hold upon his mind. The annoying thought occurred to him that he had been foolishly and of danger. He wondered if it hadn’t been a sort of in him to think there was any danger to her in free and frequent with him! As for the danger to himself, that it was cowardly to think about. He wished he had acted differently, and felt troubled at having let the girl drift beyond his knowledge. She had looked so young and appealing as he had seen her last, seated on the rug with the kittens on her lap, and so beautiful. No one he had seen before or since was as beautiful. The type seemed almost unique. He knew her to be ignorant of the world, and he hated to think what experience might have taught her of it. He ought to have looked after her more. The reproachful thought stung him. He said to himself that he’d be a little more careful the next time he felt inclined to occupy this high moral platform and be better than other men! He ought to have seen that common kindness demanded a little more of a man than this. He was completely self-disgusted, and registered a sort of mental that if he ever found the young creature again he would befriend her, if she were still in need of a friend, and take the consequences. He was not so , he told himself, as to be necessarily dangerous to the peace of mind of all the women of his acquaintance. He had acted the part of a prig and he was well punished for it.
 
Noel had altered in some ways since his former return from Europe. For one thing his appearance had changed. He had now a thick, close-trimmed beard, which made him look older and graver. There were some gray hairs, also, in his close-cropped hair.
 
The weather was very hot, and his mother and sisters had gone at once to their country house, but Noel lingered in town, although, socially, it was almost .
 
One afternoon of a very hot day, when the neighborhoods of fountains alone were , and men walked about the streets with umbrellas in one hand and palm-leaf fans in the other, with coats open, hats pushed back and frequent manipulation of their pocket-handkerchiefs, Noel, whose sense of admitted of none of these mitigations of the heat, was at a down-town crossing, waiting for a car. He was going to his club to refresh himself with a bath, order a dinner with plenty of ice accompanying it, and then take a drive in the park behind a horse warranted to make a breeze. It was getting intolerable in town, and he had just to leave it to-morrow.
 
As he stood waiting he observed, on the opposite corner, a woman carrying a baby. He had a good heart and it troubled him to see that the child seemed ill. He was struck, too, with the fact that the woman, although closely veiled, had something in her figure and bearing, as well as her dress, which made her present position seem in some way incongruous. His practised eye perceived that her figure was good, and his instinct told him that she was a lady. He looked at her so that his car passed without his seeing it until it was too far to hail. As [Pg 77]another car, going the opposite way, came along and stopped, the woman got on it, and a resemblance, which some movement or position suggested to his mind, struck him so powerfully that almost without knowing what he was doing he found himself running to overtake the car, which had started on. It was not difficult to do, and once having undertaken it, it would have looked silly to stop, so he swung himself on to the platform. The car was full and he did not go inside. He saw the figure his eye was following take a seat high up, and turn the child so that it might get the air from the window. He could see the poor, little pinched face, utterly listless and , and by reason of its sickness totally of the beauty that belongs to plump, round, babyhood. And yet the child had wonderful eyes—strange, large eyes of a clear, golden-brown color—the like of which he had seen once only before. Memories, and presentments seemed to crowd upon him. He tried to get a view of the mother, but her back was turned to him, and a fat German woman, with a pile of unmade trousers from a clothing establishment, almost hid the sight of that. Usually he could not see these poor sewing-women, with their great, hot burdens of woollen cloth on their knees, without a sentiment of pity, but he did not give this one a thought. His mind was wholly absorbed in scanning , though , the baby’s poor, little white face, and all that he could see of the mother’s dress and figure. Presently the car came to a halt. The German woman got up and down the with her burden and got off, but some one quickly moved into the vacant seat. Still he could see better now, and the better he saw the stronger grew the conviction in his heart. Gradually the car thinned out, and he might have gone nearer, but something held him back. He kept his position by the conductor, until he rang his bell and called out the name of a landing from which the excursion boats went out daily. Then the woman rose, lifting her baby with gentle carefulness, and came down the aisle and got out. She passed directly by Noel, but her thick veil was impenetrable, and yet, from the nearer view of her figure and the pose of her head, the feeling he had was deepened and strengthened. He got out, too, and followed her, and as he walked directly behind her, his eyes fastened on the rich coil of her dark hair, he felt sure that this was Christine Dallas.
 
“Poor thing!” he said under his breath. The tears were near his eyes, but a feeling of rage surged up and overmastered them. Where was the girl’s husband? Where were all the men and women that ought to have protected her and given her support and companionship in this hour?
 
She on in front of him now, her figure to its burden. The baby was light, but she carried in addition to it a shawl and a small bag. He longed to go and help her, but he feared to startle or her. If he had been a stranger he would not have hesitated, and he wondered at the cruel of the passers-by. They were mostly , draymen and porters, but at least they were men, and it made his blood boil to see them passing her carelessly and almost jostling her.
 
She got on board the boat, which was not crowded, and he followed a little way behind. It gave him a sense of keen distress to see her threading her way through groups of rough men, who ignored or jostled her, to the little window where she bought her ticket, and it angered him to see how indifferently the man sold it to her, and pushed her her change.
 
For a while he kept at a distance, observing her, however, as she took her way, with an air of familiarity with her surroundings, to a place on deck sheltered alike from observation and from the strong breeze which was already beginning. Here the brought her a pillow, handing it without speaking and waiting significantly. She took it in silence, then got out her purse, a meagre-looking one, and put a little coin into the woman’s hand. As she did so she said, “Thank you,” and the least little foreign inflection—a lingering difficulty [Pg 81]with the “th”—gave Noel the last assurance that he needed. How unforgotten the voice was! He believed he would almost have recognized it without any words.
 
The woman made no reply, but pocketed her fee and walked away. Then Noel, who had seated himself quite near, with his face so turned that he could see her without the appearance of gazing at her directly, set himself to watch what followed. There was no one else near and it was evident that she had not observed him. Indeed, she did not look about her at all, but kept her eyes on the baby, whose little face did not change. Shaking and smoothing the pillow she laid it on the seat and tenderly placed her baby on it. The boat had started and the breeze, delicious as it was to a strong person, might yet be too much for a sick child, and this the mother plainly feared, for she hastily hung her shawl over the railing beside the pillow. But this she soon discovered kept off too much air. Noel could note her mental processes and comprehend them as he saw her put up her hand to loosen her thick veil.
 
His pulses quickened. He was sure already, and yet a figure, a pose, a knot of hair, even a voice and accent might deceive him. So he watched intently as she unfastened her veil and took it off. The brim of her hat was narrow and left her face exposed.
 
It was Christine Dallas—a girl no longer, no longer blooming and childlike and wondering—but saddened, matured, mysteriously changed, with more than the old charm for him in her woman-face. It was turned to him in profile, distinct against the distant sky, and the remembered eyes were veiled by their dark-fringed lids, as she looked down upon her child.
 
The veil, ingeniously fastened with a few pins, proved a convenient . She laid her arm above it on the rail, as she her head toward the baby. Although the eyes were hid, the mouth—in her a feature of extreme sensitiveness—told the story of past suffering and present pain.
 
 
What a face! No artist had ever had a model such as that before him, and the pale of the sick child was almost as interesting a subject. But Noel never thought of it. For once the artist in him became , and he looked on with no feeling but a pity so great that it absolutely filled his heart and left no room for any other.
 
The mother’s suffering face put on a smile, and she made a little kissing sound with her lips to try to attract the baby’s notice, and rouse it from its .
 
“Mother’s precious little pigeon,” she said , and the thin little face between her soft thumb and and giving it a loving . But, instead of smiling back at her, a piteous little came around the baby’s mouth. His thin forehead wrinkled and he began to whimper.
 
She caught him to her heart with a motion of love and pity, and began to rock her body to and fro as she held him there.
 
“Did mother hurt her baby?” she said, speaking in low tones of keenest self-reproach. “There, then, mother wouldn’t trouble him any more! Mother was bad and naughty to try to make her boy laugh when he was so sick! Mother loves her baby, that she does, and when her little man gets well he’ll play and laugh with mother then, won’t he?”
 
The whimper died away, and when the soft crooning and rocking had continued a little while the baby dropped its weary lids and slept. She laid him in her lap, raising her knee to elevate his head, by resting her foot on the round of a chair. He sank into his new position with a tremulous sigh, and slept on. And as he slept she watched him, her great eyes fastened on his thin little face with a look as if she would it with love. Afraid to touch him, lest he should wake, she caught the folds of his dress in her hand with a strength that strained its sinews, as if she were afraid he would be snatched away from her.
 
Noel, who had expected every moment that she would turn, had now ceased to look for it. She was evidently unconscious of everything, herself included, except the child. As she bent her head above it, never taking her eyes from its wan little , the look of hungry love that came to her was stronger than any look he had ever seen expressed upon a face before. Presently, as if unable to resist the impulse, she took one of the little hands, blue-white for lack of blood, and held it in her own. He could divine the fact that it cost her an effort not to squeeze it hard. Her eyes fastened on it hungrily, and then looked into the pinched little face. Evidently this sleep was something , for she made these slight movements with the utmost caution, and did not venture to change her position. And as she so watched the baby, Noel, keeping as profoundly still, watched her. He saw that her plain, gray costume, charmingly fashioned as it was, was yet somewhat worn and shabby, as if from over-long usage; that her round straw hat was shabby, too, and one of her little boots, cut and finished in such a pretty, foreign fashion, had a small hole in it. The long glove on her left hand was ripped at the finger-ends. The right hand was bare, and looked very strong and healthy as it held the little feeble one. With her other hand she was holding a fan between her child’s eyes and the sun. She had never ceased a little rocking motion of the knee. Oh, if she could only keep him asleep! her whole attitude and motion seemed to say. Now and then she uttered low, hushing sounds as a of pain would contract the baby’s face, and threaten to waken him. These little noises came to Noel faintly, and he felt himself sharing with her this intense desire to keep the child asleep. Suddenly, above the monotone of the vessel’s motion, there was a sharp steam-whistle. Christine gave a little cry, and the next instant burst into tears. It was too much for her over-strung nerves. At the same moment the baby waked and began to cry weakly. The sound recalled her to herself and she took the little creature in her arms and rocked and hushed it, at the same time fighting with her own , brushing away her tears with a fold of the baby’s dress and trying to speak to it . But she was utterly unnerved, and the tears and sobs kept coming back even while she those calming, loving words.
 
Noel could bear it no longer. He was afraid of increasing her , but he felt he must go to her aid. So he took quietly the few steps that brought him to her and said gently:
 
“Christine, give the baby to me. Don’t mind my seeing you. Don’t mind anything, but just try to be quiet and rest a little. I will help you.”
 
She looked at him an instant without recognition, then a gleam of comprehension came into her eyes, and in a confused, weak way she let him take the baby, and falling back upon the seat she hid her face in her hands and fell to . Noel, for the first time in his life holding a young baby in his arms, was yet with it, since nothing but strength and tenderness were required, and he had both. He the little creature into silence, walking backward and forward a few steps, and watching Christine intently, without speaking to her. It was only a moment or two that she gave way, and he felt it would relieve her. She wiped her eyes and sat up.
 
“I don’t know what made me do it,” she said. “I have never done so before. It is so foolish; but I did so want baby to stay asleep, and I was hoping nothing would wake him, and the whistle scared me so. Let me have him now, Mr. Noel. Thank you, oh, thank you. Perhaps he feels better. He has had a nice little sleep.”
 
Noel would have kept the child, but he saw she was not to be prevented from taking it, and when she had got it in her arms she began to look at it and talk to it and walk it about with every appearance of having forgotten Noel altogether. He had called her Christine under impulse, and he now recalled the fact that she had taken it simply and without any protest. On the whole, he was glad. To have called her by the formal name by which he had known her might have struck some chord of pain. He did not even know that she bore it still. Dallas might be dead or worse than dead to her. A score of possibilities suggested themselves to his mind. But he felt he must try, if possible, to make her understand him.
 
“Poor little ill baby,” he said, going close to her side, where she stood by the railing with the baby laid upon her shoulder, her head so as to rest her cheek on his. “I hope he is better. I am so glad I saw you, Christine. You must let me help you, exactly as if I were your brother, for no brother could want to help you more. I really think I forgot I wasn’t when I called you by your name just now. But you didn’t mind it, did you?”
 
“Oh, no,” she said simply. “But where did you come from?” she asked, as if the question had just occurred to her.
 
“Let us say from the skies,” he answered, smiling. “I think my good angel must have sent me to take care of you. Sit down, if you will hold the baby. Let me make you more comfortable.”
 
He went and brought a large and easy chair from some unknown quarter and made her sit in it. Then, saying he would be back presently, he walked away. Before he returned the stewardess appeared, smiling and , making a offer of her services to hold the baby, or to do anything desired of her. She brought a comfortable hassock, which she placed under Christine’s feet, and only the latter’s determination prevented her from taking possession of the baby. She told her exactly where she was to be found in case she should be wanted, and ended by presenting her with a key which, she told her, would open a stateroom at the head of the stairs. As the woman walked away Noel returned. Christine told him how kind the stewardess had been, and said that she had never known there were any staterooms on board, this being an excursion boat.
 
“Oh, there are generally two or three,” said Noel carelessly, “for the people to go to when they want to rest. If you’d like to, we’ll go now and inspect.”
 
Evidently the pleased her, so they went together, but she refused to allow him to carry the baby, or even to send for the woman. When they opened the door everything was clean and fresh, as if just prepared for them. Christine looked about her with an air of relief that it rejoiced him to see. He told her to get a little rest, if she could, and that he would stroll about for a while and come back for her. She went in and closed the door and he turned away. In a few minutes the stewardess knocked, to offer her services, and Christine, as she accepted them, felt a sudden change as to her whole surrounding atmosphere.
 
Noel, meanwhile, had gone up on deck, and was walking about and looking around him curiously. He was certainly out of his element, but his habits of life had been such as to make him feel at home almost anywhere. What he rebelled at was the thought of Christine being in this place. Her distress of mind and her poverty seemed so indecently exposed to view. He lingered a while in the thick of the crowd, torturing himself with the horrible between it and the poor, dear woman in the stateroom below. He had to have put at her disposal the best the boat afforded, but it was meagre. What business had she here at all? It was no place for her. His whole nature rebelled at it, and he grew as he thought that it was no business of his to put it right.
 
Throwing his cigar away he went below and knocked very gently at the stateroom door. It was opened by Christine, who had, perhaps, bathed her face, for the traces of tears were almost gone, though enough remained to give her eyes an appealingness that went to his very heart.
 
“Well,” he said, in that tentative tone which admits of any sort of answer.
 
She looked immediately at the baby lying on the and stood aside to let him see. “He is quiet,” she said. “I don’t think he is in any pain. I am going to take him on deck again. The doctor said the only thing for him was change of air. I couldn’t take him away, so he said to bring him down here on the water every afternoon would do him [Pg 93]good, and I’ve been bringing him every day.”
 
“And is he better?” Noel said, forcing himself to appear to be thinking chiefly of the child. He saw that the idea absorbed her so completely that she had no thought of herself and none of him, and this was well.
 
“His fever is not so high,” she said. “Oh, he has been so ill. Once I thought—” but she broke off unable to speak, and turning toward the berth caught up the child with the of passion, though she did not forget to touch him tenderly, and held him close against her. Then she put on his little head a muslin cap that perhaps had fitted him once but was now pitifully large, and carried her light burden out into the saloon and up the steps, refusing Noel’s offer to help her. They went back to their old places, which were quiet and away from the crowd, and when Noel had made her as comfortable as he could, he drew his chair near and sat down. And then the watch began again. He looked at her, and she looked down at the baby on her lap, and apparently the baby was no more unconscious of the gaze bent on him than Christine was of the look with which Noel regarded her. He burned to ask her questions as to what had taken place since he had seen her last, but he feared to waken her from her unconsciousness. It was evident that she accepted him as a simple fact. He had come and here he was. If he helped her to take care of the baby it was all right and she was glad. Not a as to the acceptance of the help had occurred to her. He saw this and was too thankful for it not to be willing to take precautions against interrupting this most satisfactory course of things.
 
The child would die, he felt sure of that, and his heart quivered to think how she would suffer. And who was there to help her to bear it? He almost wished he was in truth her brother, that his might naturally be that right; almost, but not quite. Well, he wished a great many vain and useless things as he sat there opposite to her, conscious that she had forgotten him. He moved, and even coughed, but she took no notice. The baby’s little mouth slightly and her whole being became acutely conscious. She changed its position and words of passionate lovingness crowded upon her lips. But instead of responding to them, it began to whimper fretfully—a sound that brought a of positive across her face.
 
“There, then, mother’s little dear lamb that mother has hurt and troubled! Mother loves her little man, and he’ll get well and make poor mother happy again—won’t he?”
 
It was some time before the child could be quieted. The little almost angered Noel when he saw how it was cutting into Christine’s heart. In the hope of diverting the baby he put out his hand and began to snap his fingers softly in front of its face. There was a ring on the hand that sparkled, and the baby saw it and stretched out his little hand toward it. A gleam of pure delight came into the mother’s face.
 
 
“He hasn’t noticed anything for days,” she said, catching Noel’s hand in an grasp and holding it so that the baby could see the ring. He felt her fingers close upon it almost lovingly. He knew she could have kissed it, because it had for that second been of interest to her child—and with no knowledge that it was in any way different from the ring upon it. When the baby turned away from it fretfully she let it drop.
 
At last the little went to sleep in Christine’s lap. The boat, which was not to land but went only for the excursion on the water, had turned and they were going back toward the city. The breeze that played around Christine’s bent head blew little curly about her face and called a faint flush into her cheeks. Noel everything.
 
Night began to draw on and she could no longer see the baby’s face distinctly. She drew the end of a light shawl over him, saying as she did so:
 
“The doctor says this is the best of all—the coming back in the fresh evening air.”
 
 
She sat up in her place then, and Noel could see that she kept her hand upon her baby’s pulse.
 
“Do you ever sing now?” he asked .
 
She shook her head.
 
“No—except little songs to baby.”
 
“I heard while I was in Europe of your making an immense hit in the amateur opera. Why did you stop?”
 
“I was forced to. Those people compelled me. I don’t know why, but they looked on me as something apart from them. The women were strange and unfriendly, and the men—I don’t know,” she broke off confusedly, “but it is all hateful to me to think of. I was glad to get away from them. The night of the opera was the last time. Oh, if my baby will get well,” she said, bending to touch his thin hair with her lips, “I will never need anything but him. You believe in prayer—don’t you? Will you pray to God to make him well?”
 
Noel promised with a willingness that seemed to comfort her. Absorbed in the [child once more, she soon seemed to forget him and silence fell between them again. It was scarcely broken during the whole return trip. She seemed to have nothing to say to him. When she spoke to him at all her thrilling voice dropped to a whisper, and it was always to give some information about the baby. Once she said with interest, “He is asleep,” and once she told him that his skin felt cool and natural. This was all. It must be owned that Noel didn’t think very lovingly of that poor atom of humanity as he sat there. It was the baby that had caused her to be in this false position, which he felt so keenly, and it was terror for the baby which brought that suffering look to her face. And yet something of the same feeling was in his own breast as he palpitated at the thought of this little creature’s dying and breaking the heart of its mother, who plainly loved it with the absorbingness of the first passion she had ever known.
 
When they reached the it was quite dark, and the electric lights and of [Pg 99]the place made Noel shrink so from the thought of exposing the girl, in her suffering, to the gaze of such men and women as he saw about him, that, without consulting her, he called a carriage and helped her into it, following and seating himself opposite her. She protested at first, but he said:
 
“I have a long way to go and need a carriage, and I may as well drop you at home. Where must I put you down?”
 
She gave a street and number. The door was shut, the man mounted to his box and drove away, and they were alone together. Alone, except for the baby, but that was enough to make him feel that he and all the world beside were thousands of miles away from her. They drove on in silence. Now and then as they passed a bright light, her beautiful face, outlined by its dark hat-brim and darker hair, shone out from the shadow, but for which he might have felt himself in a dream interrupted by no sound, except the of the wheels. Always as he looked her eyes were lowered to catch each passing glimpse of the baby’s face. She never looked at him.
 
 
He began to feel it necessary to ask one or two questions that he might know what to prepare for, but as he broke the silence to begin she said warningly, in a low whisper:
 
“Sh-sh-sh, he is waking,” and then fell to rocking and crooning over the baby and him back to sleep. When he seemed quite quiet again she said suddenly in a low whisper, and in the dark he felt her eyes upon him:
 
“What makes you so kind? No one is ever kind to me. I thought nobody cared. I had one friend but she went away. She did not want to leave me, but she had to go far off somewhere to make a living for her mother.”
 
“I will always help you if you will let me,” Noel said, whispering too, for fear of being silenced. “I will send my sisters to see you, if you will let them come—”
 
“Oh, no!” she said, interrupting him . “Don’t send any women out of the world you live in to see me. They are cruel—they have dreadful thoughts of me. They look at me strangely and suspect me. Oh, no—I’d rather take my baby to the end of the earth and hide from them. I beg you not to send any one to see me.”
 
Noel hastened to promise her that he certainly would not go against her wish, and was wondering how he should find out the things he longed so to know, when suddenly the carriage stopped.
 
The driver got down and rang the bell. As Noel was Christine to get out, the door was opened and the figure of Dallas appeared. It was a surprise to him, somehow, and an unwelcome one. How his spirit rose in of this man!
 
Christine went up the steps with the baby, and as he had her bag and shawl Noel followed, telling the driver to wait.
 
It was a little house, poor and cheap, and empty, and but for the effect of his anger against Dallas, Noel thought he must have almost to see Christine here. Dallas himself was not at all discomposed as he recognized his visitor and asked him in, offering a hand which Noel managed to touch.
 
 
The baby was still asleep, and when Christine had placed it carefully on a wretched little couch, she seemed, for the first time, free to think of Noel. She turned and asked him to sit down—at the same time glancing about her with a sudden rush of consciousness, which until now a nearer interest had crowded out. The poverty-stricken look of her surroundings was made the more evident by the few objects belonging to other days that lay about—a charming sacque, smartly braided and lined with rich silk, hung on the back of a chair, and a handsome travelling rug was folded under the baby on the sofa. Everything was clean, for Christine even yet had not come to the possibility of doing without a servant.
 
There was a small lamp on a table, over which were spread a lot of cards with their faces up. Some one had evidently been playing solitaire, and as evidently, on the witness of another sense, been accompanying the game by the smoking of bad tobacco. The room with it to a degree that made Noel feel it an to Christine. But what was he to do? There was but one thing. He said good-by and went away, carrying the memory of Christine’s face flushed for shame.
 
He remembered that Dallas had taken no notice of the baby—not even glancing at it or inquiring for it—a thing which the poor mother had taken as a matter of course. He thought, as he shook hands with her at parting, that Christine had tried to speak—perhaps a word of thanks—but something stopped it and she let him go in silence.
 
The next afternoon Noel, at the same hour, went down to the wharf and boarded the excursion boat, for the deliberate purpose of having some practical talk with Christine. He soon found her, absorbed so completely in the baby that his coming seemed scarcely to disturb for a moment the intentness of her preoccupation. This, at first, made him feel a certain , but he soon had reason to congratulate himself upon an absence of self-consciousness on her part which made it the easier for him to put certain questions. Everything he inquired about she responded to with absolute honesty and a sort of vagueness which any such feelings as wounded pride. He learned, by his questionings, that they were now very poor, that Dallas had been spending his principal, which was now , and that their chief means of support was the money she obtained for doing a very elaborate sort of which she had learned while at the convent. When he asked if she had all the work she wanted she said no, and that she often rang door-bells and asked ladies to give her work and was refused. She told all this with apathy, however, and seemed to have no power of acute feeling outside of her child.
 
Then Noel, with a beating heart, made a proposal to her which had occurred to him during the wakeful hours of the night, but which he had felt he should hardly have courage for. This was that she should come every day and give him sittings for a new picture he had in mind. When he suggested it, to his delight she caught eagerly at the idea, accepting every word he said in absolute good faith, and showing no to doubt when he told her that every hour would be many times more valuable so spent than in sewing, as good models were rare and very well paid. She thanked him with the simplest , and when she heard that she would be allowed to bring her child with her she promised to come the next morning to his studio. The baby, she said, was better now, and would sleep for hours at a time, and in the afternoon she could take him on the water as usual. It was evident that there was no one else who made any demand upon her time—a significant fact to Noel.
 
Accordingly, next morning she came, her baby in her arms as usual. She had made an effort to dress herself attractively, looking upon the matter in a very businesslike way, and so girlish and charming and delicately high-bred did she look in her French-made gown of black, with trimmings of pale green ribbons, and a wide lace hat to match, that Noel rebelled with all his might against her that absurdly baby up those long steps. Still it was necessary to accept the , and he set his teeth and said nothing. When she had laid the sleeping child upon a lounge and turned toward him, her eyes fastened eagerly upon a great bunch of roses in a blue china bowl, which Noel had gotten in honor of her coming. She did not, of course, suspect this, but he saw that here, at least, was a vivid and spontaneous feeling apart from her child, as she bent above the mass of rich color.
 
“Oh, how good they are!” she said. “I seem to want to eat them, and smell them and look at them all at once.”
 
She held them off and regarded them enjoyingly a moment and then raised them to her face again, and smelled them with audible little , even the red leaves with her white teeth, as she looked at Noel over them and smiled. He went, delighted, and brought a basket of grapes which he held out to her. She took a large bunch, and holding it by the stem began to pick the grapes off one by one and eat them enjoyingly. They were pale green in color, and he noted the effect of her clear pink nails against them and the beautiful curves of the long fingers that held the stem. He poured out some water in a beautiful old Venetian and offered it to her. There was a bit of ice in it, which she against the side with the delight of a child before she drank it.
 
“I am sure I am dreaming, sure,” she said seriously. “I only hope I won’t wake until I have finished this bunch of grapes.”
 
Then she lifted the glass to her mouth, it until she had got the ice, which she chewed up noisily with her sharp little teeth. Noel felt a keen delight to see that she was letting herself be gay for a brief moment, but he seemed to see into the sadness back of it more plainly than ever.
 
“Oh, I am very happy,” she said, suddenly throwing herself into a chair where she could see her sleeping child. “My baby is better—a great deal better; he has smiled twice, and is sleeping so peacefully! Yes, I am happy!—and yet the other feeling—the one that has been with me always lately—is here too. It is very strange that one can be at the same time very happy and also the most miserable woman in the world! Does this sound like craziness? I am not crazy. There are some people—did you know it?—who can’t go crazy!—who never would, no matter what happened to them! A doctor told me that, and I believe it. He says it is constitutional or inherited or something like that—a physical thing—having a very strong brain that couldn’t be upset!”
 
She rose now, and insisted that the sitting should begin. Noel saw again the unforgotten outline of her beautiful head, with its dark hair backward into that low knot behind.
 
It was in silence that she seated herself, and he began to work. He felt as if some fair saint were sitting to him, and that the picture would never come out right without a nimbus round the head. As he went on with his rapid drawing in he saw a change settle heavily upon the face before him. Utter sadness seemed to come there as soon as the lines relaxed into their natural look.
 
At last, when he felt he had done enough to entitle her to feel that she had really rendered service, he threw a cloth over the picture and declared the sitting ended. She did not, however, ask to look at it, but went over at once to where the baby lay, and stood looking down upon him. Noel, who had followed her, stood silently beside her for some moments. Suddenly she said aloud:
 
“I am very miserable.”
 
He took it in silence, as he had taken her former of happiness. Presently she went on:
 
“I said, a little while ago, that I was happy, and for a moment I seemed to feel it in spite of all the . God knows I don’t forget to thank Him that my baby is better”—her lips trembled—“but what is his dear life to be? What is mine to be? Always like this? Oh, God help me! My heart is broken.”
 
He thought she was going to cry, but she did not. She only clasped her hands hard together and drew in her lower lip, it in her teeth.
 
“Perhaps I ought not to speak like this,” she said. “I don’t know whether it is very wrong or not. But it is so long since any one was kind to me or seemed to care.”
 
“It is not wrong,” said Noel, “don’t think it. Ease your heart by speaking, if it comforts you. Try to remember what we are to each other—think of me as your brother.”
 
Thus invited, he hoped she would speak freely, but she caught her lip again, as if in the effort of self-repression, and shook her head. Noel was hurt.
 
“Do you not trust me?” he said.
 
“I trust you always,” she answered. “You are good and kind and true, and not like other men. Oh, how bad they are! What things they can think of a woman! The world is dark and evil, and I and my baby are alone—alone—alone!”
 
The of this outburst seemed to recall her to herself and her surroundings, and by a tremendous effort she managed to a manner and expression of calm. The baby stirred and opened its eyes, and in a moment everything else was forgotten.
 
A few moments later, when, with the child in her arms, she was ready to go, Noel, as he handed her her gloves and pocketbook, slipped something into the latter.
 
“I don’t know what you will think of the reward of your morning’s labor,” he said, in an off-hand way. “To me it seems little, although you, with your notions, may think it too much. You don’t know, of course, that a model such as the one I’ve secured this morning is hard to get, and can always command a good price. You have fairly and honestly earned it and I hope you will be willing to come again. May I say to-morrow?”
 
 
“If baby is as well as to-day. Oh, how good you are! I hope God will bless you for being so good to me.”
 
“I hope He would curse me if I were not,” said Noel, and then, restraining his vehemence, he begged her to let him carry the baby down-stairs for her. This she utterly refused, and it cut him to the heart to feel that her reason for doing so was not so much to save him trouble as to prevent his being seen in such a attitude toward his model. So he had to see her go off alone with her burden. He rebelled at the sight. Since the baby was—a stubborn fact in an form—and Christine could not be happy to have it out of her sight, the situation should, at any rate, have had the mitigations which civilization supplies. A bonne, in an effective cap and , should have carried the child for her, and a footman should have held open the door of a comfortable carriage for her on reaching the street. Instead of which he had to meet the maddening possibility that the cabman was careless and and that passers-by in the street stared at her.
 
With his hands thrust deep in his trousers’ pockets he turned back into the studio, slamming the door behind him with his elbow, and walking over to the window, where he stood a long while lost in thought. The one satisfactory reflection which the situation suggested was that he had succeeded in making Christine accept, as a natural arrangement, the fact that when artists employed models they always sent them to and from the studios in a cab, which it was the artist’s business to pay for.