"Oh, the poor darling!" cried my wife.

She stooped over the dory and lifted the baby in her arms. His
long, fair curls fell on her shoulder; she laid her face against
his and wrapped her shawl around him.

"Let me carry him, dear," I said. "He is very wet, and too heavy
for you."

"No, no, I must carry him. My arms have been so empty--they are
full now. Oh, David, the pain at my heart has gone. He has come
to me to take the place of my own. God has sent him to me out of
the sea. He is wet and cold and tired. Hush, sweet one, we will
go home."

Silently I followed her home. The wind was rising, coming in
sudden, angry gusts; the storm was at hand, but we reached
shelter before it broke. Just as I shut our door behind us it
smote the house with the roar of a baffled beast. I thanked God
that we were not out in it, following the dream-child.

"You are very wet, Josie," I said. "Go and put on dry clothes at
once."

"The child must be looked to first," she said firmly. "See how
chilled and exhausted he is, the pretty dear. Light a fire
quickly, David, while I get dry things for him."

I let her have her way. She brought out the clothes our own
child had worn and dressed the waif in them, rubbing his chilled