Our boy sleeps in a little room adjoining. I creep in and look at him. He is asleep, and has curled himself up almost into a ball, with one tiny fist in his mouth. I dare not move it to give him more air, lest he should wake and cry out. As I look a horrible feeling of loneliness comes over me. . . . He is her child . . . our child . . . I creep back to bed. Thank Heaven her eyes are shut! . . . Those eyes so solemn and blue.
And in the morning she tells me a curious dream she had last night. And this is it:
"I dreamed that a dark woman with wonderful black hair came and stood by our bed; and stooping, put her arms about you and kissed you passionately many times, smoothing your forehead with her hand. And I tried to cry out, but could not from fear. And suddenly looking up, she saw me watching her; and her face grew hard and cruel. And she came round, and stood and looked at me; and I trembled. And presently taking hold of me, she tried to pull me out of bed, but something held me down: and she gave up, and went and sat by the dull cold grate, and wept bitterly. And I felt sorry for her in spite of all, because she had no one to comfort her as I have: and I got up to go to her. But the cruel hard look crept back into her face—and then I woke, and saw you, and the empty chair, and the bright sunlight darting round the edges of the blinds, and found it was only a dream."
And what can I say ? . . . What can I do ? . . . How can I help myself? . . .
