When George Ogilvie, distinguished Judge of Palmetto County, Florida, read of the death in the papers—the quick death after the surgeon's knife—he felt glad and inexpressibly relieved. To play the part of avenger was sadly out of keeping with his gentle temperament. His wife could have done it without a qualm but since this was not permitted her she would in time have forced the role upon him. Fate, however, had taken her revenge without using him as her instrument, and the man who had brought disgrace into his home had slipped from the world honored by his associates, without visible taint upon his career. Remembering this, the Judge's sense of relief changed to a desire to play the familiar role, to sit himself upon the throne of justice and pronounce sentence upon this fresh-faced, laughing, persuasive criminal. Would he at the Most High Tribunal be given his full penalty?

But this autumn night, as the wind howled about the old house shaking the windows in their frames, as the rain tore the leaves from the branches and beat them upon the sodden ground, he almost wished the lad was alive again. He would then find some way to tie the loose, careless life to the life that it had maimed, to the life it had brought into existence. In this driving storm of circumstance that a week since had hurled a human being out of the world and last night had brought a second to take its place, he found himself helpless. His long career, a career in which he had decided with quiet assurance the guilt or innocence of men and women standing fearful before him, was of no assistance. This was not another man's problem but his own. He poured himself a drink from the old, ruby-glass decanter upon the sideboard, and found his hand trembling so that the liquor was spilled upon the cloth. His head swirled with the swirling leaves that the rain tore from their sockets. All that he had believed and preached was taken from him by his own world's tragic storm.

In the south room, however, it was peaceful and quiet. The wind spent its strength in the north, and here one could listen to the creak of the chair as the old nurse rocked slowly back and forth. Near her, on the bed, upon her back, was a young girl. Her curling brown hair lay a braid on either side of her delicate face. Her eyes were closed, but not in sleep, for every now and then she would move her right arm as though to draw something toward her. At length, opening her eyes, and looking to the far corner of the room, she said: "Mammy, I want it."

The old colored woman left her seat and walked to where a cradle stood. "Not right now, lil' lamb."

"Why not?"

"It done sleep now."

The girl turned upon her side and, crooking her arm, rested her head within it. She listened, her brow slightly wrinkled, to the rain as it beat upon the roof of the gallery.

Presently: "Why doesn't it cry, mammy?"

"Ain't I tole yer, chile, it done sleep. Ain't I tole yer?"

Downstairs the man of the house had stepped across the hall and joined a little thin old gentleman who sat close to a blazing fire.

"Doctor!"

"Yes, George."

"Remember Lillias when you gave her to me, eighteen years ago?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing. How helpless she was. I reckon all baby things are helpless." In lowered voice: "That baby upstairs now. It seems worse being a girl."

The doctor made no reply, but crouched by the fire.

"It's up to us what their lives shall be, eh? Queen or beggar maid."

The man of the house looked forlornly at his silent visitor. "Have a drink?" he asked suddenly. "I'll get you one. Julia fixed it mighty well getting the servants out of the way, but it don't make for hospitality."

Turning on him, the doctor raised his head and said, querulously: "Stop talking, can't you, man, and think. What are you going to do?"

What was he going to do? He, Judge Ogilvie, did not know what he was going to do. He looked helplessly into his friend's eyes.

Rising wearily the doctor went toward the door.

"You aren't going?" the man of the house cried in alarm.

"Yes, for a little. I've other work to do."

"See here, don't leave us like this! Supposing anything happens."

"Nothing should happen; only remember she is very weak. I should fear a shock."

"But what are we going to do?"

"Talk with your wife." The doctor spoke with a note of command. "I'm not the one to say what you should do." He pulled on his coat and, turning, held out his hand to his friend. "I'll be back soon," he said more gently. "I'll be with you through the night."

Then he opened the door upon the howling wind and rain and was gone.

Judge Ogilvie walked back into the living-room to see his wife standing before the open fire.

She was a small woman, with a small, hard mouth. Usually it was firmly set, but to-night it trembled with her trembling chin. The judge noted that the old dress she wore, long discarded, was wet; that her hair lay damp against her forehead. Her hands, too, were wet, as she held them out to the flames.

"Where's the doctor?" she asked.

"Gone, for a little."

"And Lillias?"

"She has been quiet for some time. But you have been with her; you should know."

"No," the woman answered, "I have been acting for Lillias while you two have gaped and talked and risked her future with every hour. Something has been done."

"Yes?" The man of the house found his heart beating fast, but he put his question quietly, deliberately. "You have had many plans. Which have you used?"

"I've hidden it; hidden her shame. It can never cross her path in this world."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I've not committed murder." She clenched her trembling hands together. "Not that it mightn't be the best thing. But it's buried, buried. You will never see it again."

"Buried?"

"Buried from the world into which it was born. Hidden in the sure way that one in the South can hide. I did it myself," she went on in a whisper. "I put some money in its dress and carried it in my arms that no one might know. I went through the alleys over the slippery road. The blacks' cabin was empty, and I hid it on the bed."

"God! A white child! And you did this thing!"

The man of the house for a moment faced his wife as judge.

"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."

He stooped and kissed her.

"It's a little girl, and it looks like you. It does truly."

He stroked her forehead again, but did not speak.

She roused herself and turned her head toward the dark corner of the room. "Bring it to me, mammy!" she called.

The old woman walked to the cradle and made as though to lift a child from the blankets, but her arms were empty.

"Bring it to me!"

"Lillias!" her father was at her side where she sat erect staring at the cradle. "Lillias, darling, your mother thought it best."

"Bring it to me!"

The old woman drew aside the blankets and showed an empty bed. "Chile," she moaned, "dis ain't my work."

There was a long silence; then the girl sank back in the sheets and turned toward the window. "You might have let me kiss it good-by," she said.

Her back was to them both and again she laid her head in the crook of her arm. Her breath came softly, so very softly that what time it died away neither of the watchers knew.

But when her father again touched her forehead it was quite cold, and he felt as though another baby had been sent away to be hidden out in the rain.