is face on the child's cot. She
marvelled at such excess of emotion. But when his chest heaved, and the
extremity of mortal anguish appeared to have seized him, her heart sank,
and she tried to get him in her arms. He turned away from her and went to
the window. A half-moon was over the lake.

"Look!" he said, "do you remember our rowing there one night, and we saw
the shadow of the cypress? I wish I could have come early to-night that
we might have had another row, and I have heard you sing there!"

"Darling!" said she, "will it make you happier if I go with you now? I
will."

"No, Lucy. Lucy, you are brave!"

"Oh, no! that I'm not. I thought so once. I know I am not now."

"Yes! to have lived--the child on your heart--and never to have uttered a
complaint!--you are brave. O my Lucy! my wife! you that have made me man!
I called you a coward. I remember it. I was the coward--I the wretched
vain fool! Darling! I am going to leave you now. You are brave, and you
will bear it. Listen: in two days, or three, I may be back--back for
good, if you will accept me. Promise me to go to bed quietly. Kiss the
child for me, and tell him his father has seen him. He will learn to
speak soon. Will he soon speak, Lucy?"

Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless; she could only clutch one arm of
his with both her hands.

"Going?" she presently gasped.

"For two or three days. No more--I hope."

"To-night?"

"Yes. Now."

"Going now? my husband!" her faculties abandoned her.

"You will be brave, my Lucy!"

"Richard! my darling husband! Going? What is it takes you from me?" But
questioning no further, she fell on her knees, and cried piteously to him
to stay--not to leave them. Then she dragged him to the little sleeper,
and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose abruptly from his
prayer when he had muttered a few broken words--she praying on with
tight-strung nerves, in the faith that what she said to the interceding
Mother above would be stronger than human hands on him. Nor could he go
while she knelt there.

And he wavered. He had not reckoned on her terrible suffering. She came
to him, quiet. "I knew you would remain." And taking his hand, innocently
fondling it: "Am I so changed from her he loved? You will not leave me,
dear?" But dread returned, and the words quavered as she spoke them.

He was almost vanquished by the loveliness of her womanhood. She drew his
hand to her heart, and strained it there und