As soon as the children were well off, the old clergyman came forward. Mrs. Royden was tossing the baby in her arms, and endeavoring to still its cries. The storm was yet raging; she seemed angry with the innocent infant even; when, looking up, she saw Father Brighthopes, with countenance saddened and pale, stand before her.
"Will you let me take the babe? I think I may soothe it," he said, in a very soft and earnest tone.
It was like casting oil upon raging waves. Mrs. Royden made an effort, and appeared more calm. But only the surface of the angry sea was smoothed; still the depths of her soul were broken up and troubled.
"No," said she; "I will not inflict the trial upon you. What can I do, to quiet it?" she added, impatiently.
"Perhaps my nerves are calmer than yours," replied the old man, still extending his hands. "A great deal depends upon that. Babes are very susceptible to mesmeric influences."
The idea astonished Mrs. Royden. She doubted if there was any truth in it; but, abandoning the babe to his arms, she saw the thing demonstrated at once. The child seemed to feel itself in a new atmosphere, and what the mother failed to do, in her nervous state, a stranger accomplished by the exercise of a tranquil will.
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said she, as he laid the babe in the cradle, now perfectly still and quiet. "A great deal must depend upon the nerves, and I acknowledge mine were in a bad condition."
"I cannot tell how much I grieve to see you so," replied Father Brighthopes, so kindly that she could not take offence.
"It was wrong; it was very wrong," she murmured. "But I could not help it. Everything goes wrong to-day."
"Is not such always the case, when you have too much work on hand?"