I caught her hand and let her lead me where she
would. Hand in hand we followed the dream-child
down the harbor shore in that ghostly, clouded
moonlight. Ever, she said, the little cry sounded
before her. She entreated the dream-child to wait
for her; she cried and implored and uttered tender
mother-talk. But, at last, she ceased to hear the
cry; and then, weeping, wearied, she let me lead her
home again.
What a horror brooded over that spring — that so beautiful spring! It was a time of wonder and marvel; of the soft touch of silver rain on greening fields; of the incredible delicacy of young leaves; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset. The whole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the evasive, fleeting charm of spring and girlhood and young morning. And almost every night of this wonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we roved the gray shore in quest of him.
In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was restless and uneasy until she heard the call. Then follow it she would, even through storm and darkness. It was then, she said, that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy were frightened by the tempest. What wild, terrible rovings we had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I, sick at heart, follow-
