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 consciousness above a sheer hallucinating depth into which she dared not look. But the depth drew her, and she plunged one terrified glance into it.

&quot;But the child—the child was Arthur's?&quot;

Peyton shrugged his shoulders. &quot;There again—how can we tell? Why, I don't suppose the woman herself—I wish to heaven your father were here to explain!&quot;

She rose and crossed over to him, laying her hands on his shoulders with a gesture almost maternal.

&quot;Don't let us talk of it,&quot; she said. &quot;You did all you could. Think what a comfort you were to poor Arthur.&quot;

He let her hands lie where she had placed them, without response or resistance.

&quot;I tried—I tried hard to keep him straight!&quot;

&quot;We all know that—every one knows it. And we know how grateful he was—