Cheyenne transporter. [volume] (Darlington, Indian Terr.) 1879-1886, 1883-08-13

Don't betray me; don't give me up
to him! His look would have killed my
baby; it would kill me if had to meet
it. She is safe, for | killed her, and
she is dead; and he hates me, and |
have no home,-no homer
| was in a perfect maze of doubt.
Could the pretty soft young creature
at my feet be indeed murderessP and
could it be her husband of whom she
seemed in such abject terror' My
blood boiled; felt ready to defend her
against dozen husbands: but howP
1t was midnight now; we could not
be far from London; the guard might
be popping his head in at any moment.
jumped to a sudden conclusion.
Were you going TO any friend in
London."
81 know nobody in London"
The poor little thing is either mad
or her husband is BRUTE" was my
mental exclamation.
Then you must come home with
me to my wife; she will see after you"
An upward glance of wild, agonized
supplication:
''She won't betray me, Or--take baby
from mep" And once more the wee
dead thing was lifted up into the arms
that seemed almost too frail to hold ii &,
and hidden away beneath the long
mourning cape.
took her home. Mary received her
with a broad look of amazement that
made me smile, but that found no ex-
preston in words. When, taking her
aside, | told her all knew, she wrung
her hands in sheer sympathizing pity
Murdered her own baby-her first
born! Oh, how sad, how dreadfuln'
And involuntarily she glanced toward
the door that hid from us our own little
oues, safely Graded and asleep. Then
she went back to our strange guest,
who cat huddled up in my own big
easy chair, the dead baby still at her
bosom.
Il must get her to bed" said Mary,
with q quick determined nod; and she
really did contrive to do SO by soft,
tender cooing words, and by solemn
assurances for herself and baby, whom
she kissed and cried over, and consid-
cred as she might some living object of
solicitude, much to the little mother S
comfort.
And you won't betray me; and he
won't come and take her from me, or
hurt us with his angry lookP Oh, dear,
how nice it is TO lie down! / am SO
tired, and baby is SO cold; but l think
| can sleep now little and-forget.
She was half asleep already; the
heavy lids had dropped together, the
small pale face had dropped downward
upon the little dOwny head that lay
against her bosom.
Her husband must be sent for"
said resolutely when we found our
selves once more alone; and | glanced
at an envelope | had taken from the
strangers pocket:
Mrs. TREMAYNE,
Grantley Lodge,
Grantly.
Mary stared at me aghast.
Her husband, wLO hates her, and
would have killed her baby! o, John,
YOU would not be SO cruel She seems
so frightened of him, poor little thing
You may be sure he is some horrid
wicked tryant. And if she really
killed her baby-Oh, dear, how sad il
is? Whatever will become of hertz
"But, my dear, if she has husband
or friends we must restore her to them
Why, she is little more than child
It's very strange. very, and sad: but
the mystery must be cleared, and the
baby buried"
Mary still pronounced me cruel anC
unfeeling beyond anything she coulc
have conceived.
''Of course her husband is a mad
man, who will murder her as soon as
he gets her into his hands. You know
John, that husbands are always mur