m, wistfully looking in his face by the light of the
moon.

"You did everything for her, Theo?"

"All that I could. I saw him laid upon his bed. There was nothing more
for me to do."

"Are you very tired, my boy? You have done so much."

"Not tired at all. Come out with me a little. I can't go in yet. It is a
lovely night."

"Oh, Theo, lovely and full of light!--the trees, and the bushes, and
every blade of grass sheltering something that is living; and yet death,
death reigning in the midst."

She leaned her head upon his arm and cried a little, but he did not make
any response. It was true, no doubt, but other thoughts were in his
mind.

"She will have great trouble with that child, when he grows up," he said,
as if he had been carrying on some previous argument. "It is ridiculous
to have him always hanging about her, as if he could understand."

Mrs. Warrender started, and the movement made his arm which she held
tremble, but he did not think what this meant. He thought she was tired,
and this recalled his thoughts momentarily to her. "Poor mother!" he
said; "you sat up for me, not thinking of your own fatigue and trouble,
and you are over-tired. Am I a trouble to you, _too_?" His mind was
still occupied with the other train of thinking, even when he turned to
subjects more his own.

"Do you know," she said, not caring to reply, "it is the middle of the
night?"

"Yes, and you should be in bed. But I couldn't sleep. I have never had
anything of the kind to do before, and it takes all desire to rest out
of one. It will soon be daylight. I think I shall take my bath, and then
get to work."

"Oh no, Theo. You would not work,--you would think; and there are some
circumstances in which thinking is not desirable. Come out into the
moonlight. We will take ten minutes, and then, my dear boy, good-night."

"Good-morning, you mean, mother, and everything new,--a new life. It has
never been as it will be to-morrow. Have you thought of that?" She gave
a sudden pressure to his arm, and he perceived his folly. "That I should
speak so to you, to whom the greatest change of all has come!"

"Yes," she said, with a little tremor. "It is to me that it will make
the most difference. And that poor young creature, so much younger than
I, who might be my child!"

"Do you think, when she gets over all this, that it will be much to her?
People say----"

"That is a strange question to ask," she said, with agitation,--"a ver