"It is useless," replied Mrs. Kneebone. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She turned her head away sharply. "It's not very likely that a babby of nine months old will save my life, if I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. But I never found any truth in the saying.
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