"Yes," she answered, looking full into his stern face. "I left it there. And I was right, I was right! You wanted to do something to hide the disgrace. You said you did, you and the doctor both. But you talked and talked, and sat here by the fire. Well, something is done now. We've saved our daughter from disgrace. Let the baby begin an outcast. It's better than becoming one at eighteen."
Then of a sudden her strength left her, and she fell, sobbing, into a chair.
"You'll tell her, George?" she asked after a few moments. "She will know it's for the best. But you are so quiet and gentle, and she must have no shock."
"Yes," he answered slowly, "she must have no shock, but she will mind very much. If she cries bitterly, may I bring it back?"
"No, no!" His wife faced him in arms again. And then, more quietly, "For her sake, no."
"For her sake," he repeated to himself, and left the room.
As he walked up the stairs a great dog rose from where it lay in the hallway and, following, rubbed his nose in his master's hand.
"Go back!" he commanded as he reached the door of the south room. "Likely you'll be a comfort later, but go back now."
He went to the side of the bed and found his daughter lying, her eyes wide open, looking out on the rain. He laid his hand gently upon her head and she drew it down and kissed it. She had always known that he would never fail her in his tender sympathy.
"The baby has slept a long time," she whispered. "Bring it to me, please."