And Richard De Jarnette—
Have you ever stood before a monarch of the forest marked for the woodman's ax? Have you noted its majestic spread, its trunk of massive girth, its towering branches where
"The century-living crow
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died"?
Have you stood thus and marveled not that so magnificent a thing could fall by hand of puny man? And have you further noted how it stood at last—majestic still, but with its strength so sapped, and its potentiality so meshed that any child might cause its overthrow?
For weeks the mighty oak of this man's pride and obstinacy had been preparing for its fall. Weak hands they were which had given the blows—a woman's and a child's; no one suspected that its strength was gone, he least of all; but when the crucial moment came, it needed but a baby's groping touch to lay it low.
He took her hands and raised her to her feet.
"Margaret!... Margaret!" he said brokenly. "From this hour—come what may—the child is yours."
The door closed behind him and the sound of his heavy tread echoed through the hall,—but she did not hear. The old doctor wiped his eyes, looked cautiously around, and stole from the room,—but she did not perceive.
She was on her knees beside her child, sobbing as though her heart would break.