ery beautiful, beautiful with that green beauty that only
comes of damp and decay.

Late one October night, Antony, alone with Silencieux, as was now again
his custom, was surprised to hear footsteps coming hastily up the wood,
and even more surprised at the sudden unusual appearance of Beatrice.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Antony," she said, noting with a pang how
the lamp had been arranged to throw a vivid light upon Silencieux, "but
I want you to come down and look at Wonder. I'm afraid she is ill."

"Wonder, ill!" exclaimed Antony, rising with a start, "I will come at
once;" and they went together.

Wonder was lying in her bed, with flushed cheeks and bright yet heavy
eyes.

"Wonder, my little Wonder," said Antony caressingly, as he bent over
her. "Does little Wonder feel ill?"

"Yes, Daddy. I feel so sick, Daddy."

"Never mind; she will be better to-morrow." But he had noticed how
burning hot were her hands, and how dry were her fresh little lips.

"I must go for the doctor at once," he said to his wife, when they were
outside the room. The father, so long asleep, had sprung awake at the
first hint of danger to the little child that in his neglectful way he
loved deeply all the time; and, in spite of the danger to Wonder, a
faint joy stirred in Beatrice's heart to see him thus humanly aroused
once more.

"Kiss me, Beatrice," he said, as he set out upon his errand. "Don't be
anxious, it will be all right." It was the first time he had kissed his
wife for many days.

The doctor's was some three miles away across the moor. It was a bright
starlit night, and Antony, who knew the moor well, had no difficulty in
making his way at a good pace along the mossy tracks. Presently he gave
a little cry of pain and stood still.

"O God," he cried, "it cannot be that. Oh, it cannot."

At that moment for the first time a dreadful thought had crossed his
mind. Suddenly a memory of that afternoon when he had bade Wonder kiss
Silencieux flashed upon him; and once more he heard himself saying:
"Silencieux, I bring you my little child."

But he had never meant it so. It had all been a mad fancy. What was
Silencieux herself but a wilful, selfish dream? He saw it all now. How
could a lifeless image have power over the life of his child?

And yet again, was Silencieux a lifeless image? And still again, if she
were an image, was it not always to an image that humanity from the
beginning had been sacrificed? Yes; perhaps i