Five minutes passed; ten minutes. At last the fingers loosed their hold, the eyes closed, the lines faded, and the ugly old wax mask lay still on the pillow.
Quietly Mary rose, her soft dress making no sound. Quietly she stole to the door, quietly opened it, so quietly that no one saw or heard her, for at that moment another door was flung wide open from outside, and a gay "Hello! hello! hello!" brought every one to their feet. Pippin stood in the doorway, laughing, glowing, his wheel at his back; in his arms—a child—a little, dark, bright-eyed child, who clung to him and gazed wide-eyed at the strange faces, for all were clustering about him now with greetings and questions.
"Where have you been, Pippin? We've been looking for you all day. How are you? What you been doing? Whose child is that?"
"Easy, folks, easy!" laughed Pippin. "You're scaring the kiddy out of his boots—if he had any!" with a glance at the brown toes that were curling frantically round him. "Mis' Bailey, you come—"
"Whose child is it?" asked Lucy Bailey again, as she came forward.
"Well!" Pippin laughed again, as he tried to unwind the clinging brown arms from his neck. His face was alight, there was a ring of triumph in his voice. "He calls me Daddy. What do you know about that? I expect he's mine, ain't he?"
Mary! Mary! Stop! Wait and listen! This child is six years old, and Pippin two and twenty. Use the reason on which you pride yourself!
But Mary is gone, closing the door softly. Gone to fling herself on her knees beside the dying reprobate, to tell him—silently, be sure! His sleep must not be broken—tell him over and over that he is all she has in the world, that she is a wicked, wicked girl; that she will try to love him; she will, she will!
"Mother! mother! I will try!"