The Philosopher
testified some admiration by listening attentively, and was about
to reply, but the Chorus was tired, and the women would not hear
him.
CHORUS. Best get out o' this. We don't want any o' yer
filhosophy. Go and get childer' of yer own, &c., &c.
The Philosopher and his friend departed, carrying with them
unsolved the problem they had brought.
VIII.--The Baby's First Translation.
The stonemason had been the hero of the moment; now attention
centred on our own hero. Ginx hurried off again, but as the
crowd opened before him, he was met, and his mad career stayed,
by a slight figure, feminine, draped in black to the feet,
wearing a curiously framed white-winged hood above her pale face,
and a large cross suspended from her girdle. He could not run
her down.
NUN. Stop, MAN! Are you mad? Give me the child.
He placed the little bundle in her arms. She uncovered the
queer, ruby face, and kissed it. Ginx had not looked at the face
before, but after seeing it, and the act of this woman, he could
not have touched a hair of his child's head. His purpose died
from that moment, though his perplexity was still alive.
NUN. Let me have it. I will take it to the Sisters' Home, and
it shall live there.
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