ing, guiding, protecting, as best I could; then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she could not reach the child.
I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should not busy itself with my wife’s condition so long as I could keep it from becoming known. We had no near relatives — none with any right to share any trouble — and whoso accepteth human love must bind it to his soul with pain.
I thought, however, that I should have medical advice, and I took our old doctor into my confidence. He looked grave when he heard my story. I did not like his expression nor his few guarded remarks. He said he thought human aid would avail little; she might come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible, watch over her, protect her. He needed not to tell me that.
The spring went out and summer came in — and the horror deepened and darkened. I knew that suspicions were being whispered from lip to lip. We had been seen on our nightly quests. Men and women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad.
One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called. I knew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the old grandmother’s case sixty years before when the dream-child called in the day. The doctor looked graver than ever when
