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 Fidelia; and the word was that Fidelia lived no more. Her end had come in England and after a manner like her; she had searched for hours on the Devon moor, in a winter rain, for a child who was lost. When she found the child, she had carried her two miles and when she reached shelter exhausted, Fidelia had neglected to change her own wet clothes quickly and had died of influenza on the second day.

Mr. Jessop related this to David in his office where they were shut in alone. "Her child," Mr. Jessop seemed to say, although David did not hear it clearly. He asked.

"Whose child, did you say?"

Now Mr. Jessop said distinctly, "Her child."

Hers and Bolton's, that must mean! So she had borne a child to Bolton! But Mr. Jessop said, "Her child and yours, Herrick. The little girl was born in England on the twenty-ninth of May in the spring after she left you. There is no doubt whatever that she is your child for Fidelia never went back to Bolton. Her mother named her Sarah, after your mother, she says."

David could not follow the words. He had a child; there was a little girl, who was Fidelia's and his, who was born on May 29th. His mind reckoned for him, without his controlling it, "Yes; it was September that time we were still at the hotel and she'd written to Flora Bolton and got no answer so she thought it would be all right to have a child. Yes, that's what she told me that night before she left."

His child! He asked, "Did the child live?"

"Yes."