things between them”—An illustration—“Let in light, and the darkness flees” CHAPTER XX. “The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom, soft and warm”—Led by a little child—“God being my helper, I will be a man again”—A new life—Meeting of an old friend—A friend in need—Food, clothes, work—A new home—God's strength our only safety CHAPTER XXI. Intimate relations of physical and moral purity—Blind Jake—The harvest of the thieves and beggars—Inconsiderate charity—Beggary a vice—“The deserving poor are never common beggars”—“To help the evil is to hurt the good” The malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city—The breeding-places of epidemics and malignant diseases—Little Italian street musicians—The existence of slavery in our midst—Facts in regard to it CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the poor—Christmas dinner at the mission-house—Edith perceives Andy, and feels a strange attraction toward him—Andy's disappearance after dinner—Pinky Swett has been seen dragging him away—Lost sight of CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford's—The dropped letter—It is missed—A scene of wild excitement—Mrs. Dinneford's sudden death—Edith reads the letter—A revelation—“Innocent!”—Edith is called to her mother—“Dead, and better so!”—Granger's innocence established—An agony of affection—No longer Granger's wife CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness—Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky Swett—A trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the advantage—Mr. Dinneford receives a call from a lady—The lady, who is Mrs. Bray, offers information—Mr. Dinneford surprises her into admitting an important fact—Mrs. Bray offers to produce the child for a price—Mr. Dinneford consents to pay the price on certain stipulations—Mrs. Bray departs, promising to come again CHAPTER XXV. Granger's pardon procured—How he receives his pardon—Mrs. Bray tries to trace Pinky home—Loses sight of her in the street—Mrs. Bray interviews a shop-woman—Pinky's destination—The child is gone CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she promised—Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the child—Help—Edith longs to see or write to Granger, but does not—Edith encounters Mrs. Bray in the street—“Where is my baby?”—Disappointment—How to identify the child if found CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy—Account of Andy's abduction—Andy's prison—An outlook from prison—A loose nail—The escape—The sprained ankle—The accident CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the children's hospital—“Oh, my baby! thank God! my baby!”—The identification CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger—“We want you to help us find your child”—“Edith's heart is calling out for you”—The meeting—The marriage benediction
CAST ADRIFT.
CHAPTER I.
A BABY had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder?
The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as death. A woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the faint rustle of her garments disturbing the quiet air.
A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half fearful, and then the almost breathless question,
“Where is my baby?”
“Never mind about the baby,” was answered, almost coldly; “he's well enough. I'm more concerned about you.”
“Have you sent word to George?”
“George can't see you. I've said that before.”
“Oh, mother! I must see my husband.”
“Husband!” The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was uttered struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her excitement, but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and turning her face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back from the door of the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled, disappointed air. He looked pale and wretched.
“Edith!” Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother, and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on her cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her intently for a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression came into his face, and there was cause.
The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had given way.
For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with delirium—struggled and overcame.
“Where is my baby?”
The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby.
A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and crossed to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with small, clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She bent over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes.
“Where is my baby, mother?” Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on Edith's lips.
“You must be very quiet,” she said, in a low, even voice. “The doctor forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill.”
“Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby.”
“Not now. The doctor—”
Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face.
“I want my baby, mother,” she said, interrupting her.
A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs. Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her back upon the pillow.
“You have been very ill for nearly two months,” she said, softening her voice. “No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is over, but not the danger.”
“Two months! Oh, mother!”
The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and the pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut her eyes and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of her face that thought was busy.
“Not two whole months, mother?” she said, at length, in doubtful tones. “Oh no! it cannot be.”
“It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you value your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous.”
But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her baby and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had begun to feel when she first called for the baby they had not permitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, what of the baby? To be submissive was impossible.
Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried, piteously,
“Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!”
“Your baby is in heaven,” said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice to a tone of tender regret.
Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low, wailing cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell back, to all appearance dead.
The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her daughter, and waited for the issue of this new struggle