She started and frowned. Her white arms fell from his neck.
“I thought you told me the child would die!” she cried, sharply.
“We feared so. The doctor had but little hope during those days when Sweetheart lay in that deep stupor without taking food for so long. But thanks to my mother’s excellent nursing, she survived the terrible disease, and is now on the way to recovery.”
The frown on the beautiful face, half turned away from him, grew dark and deep. There was murder in Camille’s heart.
“Oh, God! how I hate the little wretch!” she thought, feverishly; and turning to him, she asked: “Have you never had any answer to the advertisements you sent to the papers?”
“None,” he replied.
“And so it is quite settled that I am to be taxed with the little foundling’s support!” she exclaimed, malevolently.
A deep-red flush came to the young man’s handsome face.
“No, Camille; the expense of the child’s maintenance will fall upon my mother, who has a small income of her own, you know. It is her wish.”
“She is very foolish,” Camille said, bitterly.