CHAPTER VIII.
PARADISE LOST Aubrey Treherne sat at his writing-table, his head buried in his hands.
Before him lay the closely-written sheets of his letter to Helen; beside them her pencil note which had fallen, unnoticed by Ronnie, from her letter to him.
Presently Aubrey lifted his head.

His face bore traces of the anguish of soul through which he had been passing.
A man who has yielded himself to unrestrained wrong-doing, suffers with a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave true heart, however hard or lonely may be his honourable way.
Before finally reading his own letter to Helen, Aubrey read again her pathetic note to her husband.
"Ronnie, my own! "Excuse pencil and bad writing.

Nurse has propped me up in bed, but not so high as I should like.
"Darling, I am not ill, only rather weak, and very, very happy.
"Ronnie, I must write to you on this first day of being allowed a pencil, though I shall not, of course, yet send the letter.

In fact, I daresay I shall keep it, and give it to you by-and-by.

But you will like to feel that I wrote at once.
"Darling, how shall I tell you?
Beside me, in your empty place, as I write, lies your little son--our own baby-boy, Ronnie! "He came three days ago.
"Oh, Ronnie, it is so wonderful! He is _so_ like you; though his tiny fingers are all pink and crinkled, and his palms are like little sea-shells.