“It was true. He had been married three months, during which time he had called on me twice, and it was now almost time for his regular visit. I received a letter saying he would arrive in this city on the day following. What was I to do? When I thought of openly accusing him of his perfidy my heart sank within me. Oh, to think that he would be untrue to me; to know that I was not loved. For to know that was to desire to die, and why not? No sooner had the thought flashed into my mind than the plan developed in all its maturity. But what would I do with the baby? I loved him, and surely no one else would care for him since his father had deserted him and I would be dead.”
At this point my hostess paused, and walking across the room took from a drawer a photograph of a youth in military costume.
“This is my baby’s picture,” she said, with a tremor in her voice; then, giving way to her feelings, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“And to think,” she said, “a fine boy like that with no one to call father.”
So calmly did this woman of nerve tell me of her intention that I became engrossed with the idea and listened as though some one was presenting a business proposition to me.
“Then you changed your mind?” I said.
“No, I tried to put my plans into execution. I put the baby to bed, closed the room up tightly and turned on the three gas jets, took my all in my arms and closed my eyes.
“I have a distinct memory of the darkness, the shooting pains in my head and the choking sensation which seemed to so nearly strangle me that I had no ambition left with which to struggle for life; then I went to sleep.
“The next thing I knew the fresh air was blowing on my brow and I heard some one calling my name. ‘O, Mary, Mary, speak to me. Wake up, dearest, and say that you know and love me. It is Roy. Don’t you know me, precious one?’