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 Jacynth read it carefully. He frowned. "That woman again!" he said.

"Yes. Again." She stood back from him. "Do you believe he has gone back to her? Do you? Do you?" The very vehemence of her question conveyed to him the knowledge that she thought he had gone back.

"There is only this," said he, striking the paper. "And it is from her. She is not the woman to believe in."

"No! But I have thought it out for all that, and——" She paused and pressed her hands to her head. Jacynth gently led her to a seat. She looked exhausted. "He left me," said she presently—"to find my child and bring him to me. He came back, and there was no child with him. I was ill then—very ill. I could not think, but for all that, I knew. Then he went away again, and I waited—waited. Great Heaven!" said she, clasping her hands, "if you only knew what it was to wait like that for a sight of your child! and then there came—that!" She pointed to the telegram that he still held. "Well, what do you think?" asked she in a low voice, bending forward.

"It is hard to think——"

"No, it is not!" He was horrified by the change in her tone, and looked at her. She was still bending forward, her hands clasped, her young, sweet face as hard as misery could make