For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with a little gleam of triumph in her dark eyes; then with a shrug of her shapely shoulders, she replied:
“Perhaps it was but natural; let it pass. I became a lawful wife, as you have seen, nearly a year ago, and my child has had honorable birth: but, for reasons which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge her, and it becomes necessary for me to make some other provision for her.”
“But it is such an unnatural thing to do,” persisted the doctor, with a deprecating gesture.
“Granted; but—it cannot be helped,” replied the mother, firmly, an inflexible purpose written on her fair young face.
“Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?” Dr. Turner asked, after a moment of silence.
“Excuse me; I cannot answer that question,” replied his companion with pale, compressed lips.
“Ah! there has been some trouble and a separation, perhaps,” thought the doctor; then he asked:
“Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacrificing your little one—his little one, to your selfish purpose—to abandon her, as you propose, to the doubtful charity of a cold world.”
An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman’s frame at this. She shifted uneasily in her chair, her white lids quivered, her hands were locked in a rigid, painful clasp.
“I tell you there are circumstances which make it absolutely necessary for me to give her away,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, after an evident effort at self-control. “My husband would—is as helpless in the matter as myself.”