Then, on the third night, he dream-child called to her again. I
wakened from a troubled doze to find her dressing herself with
feverish haste.

"He is calling me," she cried. "Oh, don't you hear him? Can't
you hear him? Listen--listen--the little, lonely cry! Yes, yes,
my precious, mother is coming. Wait for me. Mother is coming to
her pretty boy!"

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,