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, following, 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 I told him,
and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task.