"How could I help it, David? He called me. I had to go."

"WHO called you?"

"The child," she answered in a whisper. "Our child, David--our
pretty boy. I awakened in the darkness and heard him calling to
me down on the shore. Such a sad, little wailing cry, David, as
if he were cold and lonely and wanted his mother. I hurried out
to him, but I could not find him. I could only hear the call,
and I followed it on and on, far down the shore. Oh, I tried so
hard to overtake it, but I could not. Once I saw a little white
hand beckoning to me far ahead in the moonlight. But still I
could not go fast enough. And then the cry ceased, and I was
there all alone on that terrible, cold, gray shore. I was so
tired and I came home. But I wish I could have found him.
Perhaps he does not know that I tried to. Perhaps he thinks his
mother never listened to his call. Oh, I would not have him
think that."

"You have had a bad dream, dear," I said. I tried to say it
naturally; but it is hard for a man to speak naturally when he
feels a mortal dread striking into his very vitals with its
deadly chill.

"It was no dream," she answered reproachfully. "I tell you I
heard him calling me--me, his mother. What could I do but go to
him? You cannot understand--you are only his father. It was not
you who gave him birth. It was not you who paid the price of his
dear life in pain. He would not call to you--he wanted his