child.

"Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her
breath as she spoke.

"Yes."

"Will they eat all their stuff up first?"

"Yes. Hark at them."

And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing
of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn.
The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside
was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the
paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to
church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and
security, a boy at home.

The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed
to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A
quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down
her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the
eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank
to sleep, his mind became blank.

When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in
a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be
listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He
remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was
asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of
black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth
was also a little open.

He rose quickly and went back to the house.

"Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly.

He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who
slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a
whiteness, a wanness round the eyes.

"God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head.

He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He
became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because
of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save
for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of
water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his
wife's door.

He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl,
for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might
not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes
opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her
up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her
breathing.

This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It
was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man,
untouched.

He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small