volunteered in his place, and I said as much to Miss Ambient; but she checked me by grasping my arm quickly, while we heard the wheels of the dog-cart rattle away from the gate. "He's off—he's off—and now I can think! To get him away—while I think—while I think!"
"While you think of what, Miss Ambient?"
"Of the unspeakable thing that has happened under this roof!"
Her manner was habitually that of such a prophetess of ill that my first impulse was to believe I must allow here for a great exaggeration. But in a mo ment I saw that her emotion was real. "Dolcino is dying then,—he is dead?"
"It's too late to save him. His mother has let him die! I tell you that because you are sympathetic, because you have imagination," Miss Ambient was good enough to add, interrupting my expression of horror. "That's why you had the idea of making her read Mark's new book!"
"What has that to do with it? I don't understand you; your accusation is monstrous."
"I see it all; I'm not stupid," Miss Ambient went on, heedless of the harshness of my tone. "It was the book that finished her; it was that decided her!"
"Decided her? Do you mean she has murdered her child?" I demanded, trembling at my own words.
"She sacrificed him; she determined to do nothing to make him live. Why else did she lock herself
