With the first movement, the wind seemed to die away,
and the rain to withhold its fall upon the roof She paused,
and the drops fell into the pail still more slowly, and with
a sadder intonation, as if they were grief-burdened, or
growing faint with despair. Between each drop, iach after
inch, the white hand slid along the sheet, coming nearer
and still nearer the unconscious babe, whose nurse seemed
to snore more loudly as the danger to her charge increased.
At length its Uttle hand was reached, and Mary accidentally
touched it. It was soft and warm, and ii'ritated by the
slight disturbance, the child raised it and slowly dropped
it upon that of its mother. In the utter tension of her sen-
sibilities, she could feel the pulsations of its heart at the
very tips of its fingers, and there was something so delicate
and sweet in its touch, something so unconscious and inno-
cent in its sleep, that she paused for another look in its
face. She could not be mistaken. It was the same face —
the same child — that had come between her and her own
child — it was the little impostor.
352 THE BAT PATH,

The wind came Tip again with a wail from the woods —
and her brain caught the impulse and the influence. Again
her hand was in motion, and onward it moved, inch by inch,
towards the babe's head — the slowly dropping water mean-
while uttering low, tearful, pleading notes of deprecation.
