so ill as this, never. Was it not near morning?

Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rowed
out to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A magnificent
night, though at the end of December; a sky of deep blue, thick set with
stars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars, or perhaps a voice
from one of the many vessels that lay anchored in the harbour, each
showing its lantern-gleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, and
sparkled with reflected radiance.

And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward lay
the Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it had been
passed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point of the main shore
was a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in these waters was fought
the battle of Actium.

The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber,
longing for the dull English dawn.

At eight o'clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two to
be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to have
news of the child, but for this he would have to wait.

At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he
stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must
have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression on
her face such as he had never seen there.

'How is Willie?'

'Better, dear; much better.'

He still searched her face.

'Ought you to leave him?'

'Hush! You mustn't speak.'

Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child
was dead.

'The truth, Amy!'

She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek
against his hand.

'I am come to nurse you, dear husband,' she said a moment after,
standing up again and kissing his forehead. 'I have only you now.'

His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that he
closed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. But those
last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length they
brought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of the
first coldness between him and Amy; her love for him had given place to
a mother's love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days of
their marriage; they would again be all in all to each other.

'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill,' she said to him. 'You
should have let me know, dear.'

He smiled an