head and he saw that the old anxiousness came back upon
her.

"My lord, she believes he _is_ alive when she sees him. That's what
troubles me even in my thankfulness. I don't understand, God help me! I
was afraid when she saw the child that it might all come over her again
in a way that would do her awful harm. But when I laid the little thing
down by her she just lay there herself and looked at it as if something
was uplifting her. And in a few seconds she whispered, 'He is like
Donal.' And then she said to herself, soft but quite clear, 'Donal,
Donal!' And never a tear rose. Perhaps," hesitating over it, "it's the
blessedness of _time_. A child's a wonderful thing--and so is time.
Sometimes," a queer sigh broke from her, "when I've been hard put to it
by trouble, I've said to myself, 'Well the Almighty did give us
_time_--whatever else he takes away.'"

But Coombe mysteriously felt that it was not merely time which had
calmed her, though any explanation founded on material reasoning became
more remote each day. The thought which came to him at times had no
connection with temporal things. He found he was gravely asking himself
what aspect mere life would have worn if Alixe had come to him every
night in such form as had given him belief in the absolute reality of
her being. If he had been convinced that he heard the voice of Alixe--if
she had smiled and touched him with her white hands as she had never
touched him in life--if her eyes had been unafraid and they had spoken
together "only of happy things"--and had understood as one soul--what
could the mere days have held of hurt? There was only one possible reply
and it seemed to explain his feeling that she was sustained by something
which was not alone the mere blessedness of time.

He became conscious one morning of the presence of a new expression in
her eyes. There was a brave radiance in them and, before, he had known
that in their radiance there had been no necessity for bravery. He felt
a subtle but curious difference.

Her child had been long asleep and she lay like a white dove on her
pillows when he came to make his brief good-night visit. She was very
still and seemed to be thinking. Her touch on his arm was as the touch
of a butterfly when she at last put out her hand to him.

"He may not come to-night," she said.

He put his own hand over hers and hoped it was done quietly.

"But to-morrow night?" trusting that his tone was quiet also. It must be