But the woman was as insensible to this cry as she had been to all others. “My baby,” she wailed, “my baby, my own, own baby!”
Paula recoiled in dismay, and for a moment stood looking down with fear and doubt upon the fearful being before her. But in another instant a heavenly instinct seized her, and ignoring the mother, she stooped over the child and tenderly kissed it. The woman at once woke from her stupor. “My baby!” she cried, snatching the child up in her arms with a gleam of wild jealousy; “nobody shall touch it but me. I killed it and it is all mine now!” But in a moment she had dropped the child back into its place, and was going on with the same set refrain that had stirred her lips from the first.
Paula was not to be discouraged. Laying her hand on the child’s brow, she gently smoothed back his hair, and when she saw the old gleam returning to the woman’s countenance, said quietly, “Are you going to carry it to Grotewell to be buried? Margery Hamlin is waiting for you, you know?”
The start which shook the woman’s haggard frame, encouraged her to proceed.
“Yes; you know she has been keeping watch, and waiting for you so long! She is quite worn out and disheartened; fifteen years is a long time to hope against hope, Jacqueline.”
The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddened glare. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” cried she, and bent herself again over the child.
Paula went on as if she had not spoken. “Anyone that is loved as much as you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if your child is dead, there is still someone left whom you can make supremely happy.”