"Slumber, my darling Dodo,
Dodo—dodo—"
From what chamber in his memory does that echo come? What is this indescribable something that courses like fire through his veins? With that curious double consciousness which sometimes comes to us in tense moments, Hernando's mind is thousands of miles away. From the tumultuous life of mining camps, he is travelling down, down to the very seething cauldron of nether life; that pest-house of thought filled with the "moanings of spirit."
"Dodo, dodo
Ave Maria—Dodo,"
echoed the sweet voice. That awful picture fades away and Hernando sees a golden-haired child in a snowy crib. Can that cherub be the prophecy of what has just vanished? No! No! a thousand times no! There sits the child's mother beside him. Yes, distinctly the baby voice says: "Sing me
