she had given him, in the child, another reason for being what he was,
hard-working, silent--dull.

She looked at him and wondered; for there was a mystery in his shadowy
eyes and still face, which had promised much more than she had ever
found in him. There was something mysterious and dreadful, too, in his
unnatural strength. The fear of him grew upon her, and sometimes when he
kissed her she burst into tears out of sheer terror at his touch.

"They are tears of happiness," she said, trembling and drying her eyes
quickly.

She smiled, and he believed her, happier every day in her and in the
child.

Then came the realization of the grey dream of misery. Again she was
seated by the window in her accustomed chair, and he was in his place,
pen in hand, eyes on paper, thoughts fixed like steel in that obstinate
effort to do better, while she had the certainty of his failure before
her. And between them, in a straw cradle with a hood, all gauze and
lace and blue ribbons, lay the thing that bound her to him and cut her
off forever from the world,--little Walter Crowdie, the child without a
name, as she called him in her thoughts. And above the child, between
her and Paul Griggs, floated the little imaginary stage on which she was
to go on acting her play over and over again till all was done. She had
not even the right to shed tears for herself without telling him that
they were for the happiness he expected of her.

He would not leave her. He had scarcely been out of the house for weeks,
though the only perceptible effect of remaining indoors so long was that
he had grown a little paler. She implored him to go out. In a few days
she would be able to go with him, and meanwhile there was no reason why
he should be perpetually at her side. He yielded to her importunity at
last, and she was left alone with the child.

It was a relief even greater than she had anticipated. She could cry,
she could laugh, she could sing, and he was not there to ask questions.
For one moment after she had heard the outer door close behind him she
almost hesitated as to which she should do, for she was half hysterical
with the long outward restraint of herself while, inwardly, she had
allowed her thoughts to run wild as they would. She stood for a moment,
and there was a vague, uncertain look in her face. Then her breast
heaved, and she burst into tears, weeping as never before in her short
life, passionately, angrily, violently, without th