erhaps to believe it. But
there is no way. The dead cannot return to earth that we may give them
tenderness instead of our former cruelty. No--no!"

"Maurice--trust me. Let us be married--soon."

That night, before she went to bed, Lily knelt down and prayed until the
night was old. She asked what thousands of women have asked since the
world was young. But surely never woman before had so strange a reason
for her request. And when at length she rose from her knees she felt
that time must bring the gift she had prayed for, unselfishly, and with
her whole heart.

A month afterwards, on a bright spring morning, Maurice and Lily were
married. It was a great occasion for Brayfield. The church was
elaborately decorated by the many young ladies who had secretly longed
to be the brides of the interesting doctor. Crowds assembled within and
without the building. Miss Bigelow rose from her fourteenth death-bed in
a purple satin gown and a bonnet prodigious with feathers and testified
to the possibility of modern resurrection in a front pew. Flowers, rice,
wedding marches filled the air. But people remarked that the bridegroom
looked like a man who went in fear. Even when he was on the doorstep of
the church in the throng of curious sightseers he moved almost as one
whom a dream attends, who sees the pale figures, who hears the faint
voices that inhabit and make musical a vision of the night. The bride
too, had no radiant air of a young girl fulfilling her girlish destiny
and giving herself up to a protector, to one stronger, more able to
fight the world than a woman who loves and fears. Her face, too, was
pale and grave, even--some thought--a little stern. As she passed up the
church she glanced at no one, smiled at no friend. Her eyes were set
steadfastly towards the altar where Maurice waited. And when, after the
ceremony, she came down the church to the sound of music her eyes were
fixed on her husband. She took no heed of any one else, for her hand
pressed upon his arm, felt that he was trembling. And her ears seemed to
hear through all the jubilant music, through all the murmur of the
gazing crowd, a cry, far away, yet more distinct than any sound of
earth, thin, piercing, full of appeal to her--the spirit-cry of the
child.

PART II.

THE LIVING CHILD.

PART II.

THE LIVING CHILD.

The honeymoon of Lily and Maurice was short, and many would have called
it sad, could they have known how different it