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The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. “You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier’s rooms. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. Reaction set in and she leapt at him, beating at his chest with her fists. They were filthy after the burial. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft.
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