children, as fast as they came, and killed 'em."

"Then I'm glad I ben't her child."

Very different were the recollections interchanged between two
middle-aged Portchester women.

"She was drinking tea at my house when her sister Sairey came
running in with the news that the baby she had left at home wasn't
quite right. That was her first child, you know."

"Yes, yes, for I was with her when that baby came," broke in the
other, "and such joy as she showed when they told her it was alive
and well I never saw. I do not know why she didn't expect it to be
alive, but she didn't, and her happiness was just wonderful to
see."

"Well, she didn't enjoy it long. The poor little fellow died
young. But I was telling you of the night when she first heard he
was ailing. Philemon had been telling a good story, and we were
all laughing, when Sairey came in. I can see Agatha now. She
always had the most brilliant eyes in the county, but that day
they were superbly dazzling. They changed, though, at the sight of
Sairey's face, and she jumped to meet her just as if she knew what
Sairey was going to say before ever a word left her lips. 'My
baby!' (I can hear her yet.) 'Something is the matter with the
baby!' And though Sairey made haste to tell her that he was only
ailing and not at all ill, she turned upon Philemon with a look
none of us ever quite understood; he changed so completely under
it, just as she had under Sairey's; and to neither did the old