"What a great good man he is," she kept repeating, while at the
same time she felt an undefinable interest in the Swedish child,
whom at that very moment, Grace Atherton was cursing in her heart
as the cause of Richard's misfortune.
Kitty was gone at last, and glad to be alone she wept passionately
over this desolation of her hopes, wishing often that the baby had
perished in the river ere it had wrought a work so sad. How she
hated that Swedish mother and her child--how she hated all
children then, even the black haired Edith, out in the autumn
sunshine, singing to herself a long-forgotten strain, which had
come back to her that morning, laden with perfume from the vine-
clad hills of Bingen, and with music from the Rhine. Softly the
full, rich melody came stealing through the open window, and Grace
Atherton as she listened to the mournful cadence felt her heart
growing less hard and bitter toward fate, toward the world, and
toward the innocent Swedish babe. Then as she remembered that
Richard kissed the flowers, a flush mounted to her brow.
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