if it was from the seething fire before her, or out of her own heart.
'Do you hear?' she wept; 'I have committed murder. Do you hear?' But the man leaned to her and whispered: 'Come to me, and do not listen. With me there will be joy. Do not listen!'
'Do you hear?' she said. 'Hark! is it in my own heart? Who is it cries so loud?'
The man tried to take her hand.
'Come to me,' he said; 'come to me and forget.'
'It is not "Murder."' She drew away from him. 'It is "Mother" they cry. It is "Mother" . . . it is "Mother," "Mother." It is some child.' She half rose.
'"Mother"! "Mother"! How he cries. It is the voice of a child I have known and loved—one I have sent to his death, one who was coming to seek me.' The man spoke to her again, but his voice was faint. Yet she did not raise her head from her hands where she wept.
'Do not go back to that grey life; come with me, and I will make your every hour a joy. Come to me.' But the loud crying of the child
