Lorimer often?"

"Every day or so. I drop in there when I can, for she's not going out
much, and she needs to see more people."

"How is she?"

"I don't know how to tell you," Bobby answered, while a note of sadness
crept into his voice. "She is giving her life to that child; and, unless
you know the child, you can't imagine the wear and tear of such an
existence. I don't know which would be worse, the watching for the
intellect which never comes, or the waiting for the convulsions that
do."

"What will be the end of it all?" Thayer broke out impetuously.

Bobby shook his head.

"God knows," he said drearily.

Bobby spoke truly, for already it seemed that the divine plan was made
to take the imperfect little life back into its keeping. A sudden chill,
a sudden cold, and then the grim word, pneumonia! For days, Beatrix and
the nurse hung over the child, struggling almost against hope to conquer
the disease. Then it was that Beatrix realized how truly she had loved
her little son, how she would miss even the constant pain of his
presence. He was her very own, the one being in the world who belonged
absolutely to her; and she fought for his life with the fierceness of
despair. Then, just as it seemed that she had triumphed and the child
was out of danger, the same insidious foe which had ended Lorimer's
life, attacked the life of his child.

Alone in the dusky room, Beatrix was sitting on the edge of the bed, her
arm around the boy who had just snuggled down for the night. Drowsily
his lids drooped; then he opened his eyes, met her eyes and struggled up
to reach her face.

"Mamma, kiss!" he begged.

That was all. Weakened by disease, the heart had been powerless to bear
the strain of the sudden motion, and the boy fell into his final sleep,
cradled in his mother's arms.

That night, Thayer sang _The Flying Dutchman_ in the same city where,
four years before, he had sung _St. Paul_. He had not been there, during
the intervening time; but his public had been faithful to his memory,
and the little opera house was packed to its utmost limits to do honor
to its former favorite, as well as to its one-night opera season. For
some unaccountable reason, Thayer had liked the place. Both the house
and the audience had pleased him, and it had been at his own request
that the manager had put on _The Flying Dutchman_, for that night.

During the last few months, _The Dutchman_ had become Thayer's favorite
role. Even _Val