were half drawn to give the little creature air, and there rustled
lightly through them a low south wind, bearing the delicate perfume of
blossoms, and the lulling murmur of bees singing at their sweet toil.

Roger was weary with watching; the chiming sounds of Summer, the low
ticking of the old clock on the stairs, and the utter quiet within,
soothed him to slumber; his head bent forward and rested on the bedside;
he fell asleep, and in his sleep he dreamed.

Over Sunny's pillow (for in this dream he seemed to himself waking and
watching) he saw a hovering spirit, the incarnate shape of Light, gazing
at the sleeping child with ineffable tenderness; but its keen eyes
caught the aspect of Roger's Shadow; the pure lineaments glowed with
something more divinely awful than anger, and with levelled lance it
assailed that evil Presence and bore it to the ground; but the Shadow
slipped aside from the spear, and cowered into distance; the angelic
face saddened, and, stooping downward, folded Sunny in its arms as if to
bear her away.

Roger woke with his own vain attempt to grasp and detain the child. The
setting sun streamed in at the window, and his mother stood at his side,
brought by some inarticulate sound from Sunny's lips.

She sent the boy to call his father, and when they came in together, the
child's wide blue eyes were open, full of supernatural calm; her parched
lips parted with a faint smile; and the loose golden curls pushed off
her forehead, where the blue veins crept, like vivid stains of violet,
under the clear skin.

"Dear mother!" she said, raising her arms slowly, to be lifted on the