"Thank you—but I must—must go back." Suddenly, with a cry, "My baby, he is mine," she swept forward with long, swinging steps toward a group who were bending over a rosy-cheeked girl, who was seated on the steps of the terrace with a child in her arms. She was comforting him and cuddling and petting him, and those around her were exclaiming as young girls will: "Isn't he a dear!"—"Oh, let me hold him a moment!"—"There, he is going to cry again. No wonder, poor little chap!"—"Oh, look at his curls—so cunning—give him to me."
Seeing his mother, he put up his arms to her and smiled, while two tears rolled down his round baby cheeks.
"I found him in the pony carriage with Hetty Giles, and he was crying so—and such a darling! I just took him away—the love!" cried Laura. "Why, we saw you yesterday at the Victoria. I could not pass him by, you remember?"
The baby, one beaming smile, nestled his face bashfully in his mother's neck and patted her cheek, glancing sidewise at his admirers through brimming tears, while Cassandra, her eyes large and pathetic, turned now on Laura, now on her mother, stood silent, quivering like one of her own mountain creatures brought to bay. But she was strengthened as she felt her baby again in her arms, and as she stood thus looking about her, every one became silent, and she was constrained to speak. She did not know that something in her manner and appearance had commanded silence—something tragic—despairing. It was but for an instant, then she turned to Lady Laura.