I could see her though, between my eyelashes, and I lay there, every time I woke up, and watched her walking back and forth, back and forth, up and down, with the heavy little fellow in her arms, all night long.

Sometimes, Johnny, when I’m gone to bed now of a winter night, I think I see her in her white nightgown with her red-plaid shawl pinned over her shoulders and over the baby, walking up and down, and up and down.  I shut my eyes, but there she is, and I open them again, but I see her all the same.

I was off very early in the morning; I don’t think it could have been much after three o’clock when I woke up.  Nancy had my breakfast all laid out overnight, except the coffee, and we had fixed it that I was to make up the fire, and get off without waking her, if the baby was very bad.  At least, that was the way I wanted it; but she stuck to it she should be up,—­that was before there’d been any words between us.

The room was very gray and still,—­I remember just how it looked, with Nancy’s clothes on a chair, and the baby’s shoes lying round.  She had got him off to sleep in his cradle, and had dropped into a nap, poor thing! with her face as white as the sheet, from watching.

I stopped when I was dressed, half-way out of the room, and looked round at it,—­it was so white, Johnny!  It would be a long time before I should see it again,—­five months were a long time; then there was the risk, coming down in the freshets, and the words I’d said last night.  I thought, you see, if I should kiss it once,—­I needn’t wake her up,—­maybe I should go off feeling better.  So I stood there looking:  she was lying so still, I couldn’t see any more stir to her than if she had her breath held in.  I wish I had done it, Johnny,—­I can’t get over wishing I’d done it, yet.  But I was just too proud, and I turned round and went out, and shut the door.

We were going to meet down at the post-office, the whole gang of us, and I had quite a spell to walk.  I was going in on Bob Stokes’s team.  I remember how fast I walked with my hands in my pockets, looking along up at the stars,—­the sun was putting them out pretty fast,—­and trying not to think of Nancy.  But I didn’t think of anything else.

It was so early, that there wasn’t many folks about to see us off; but Bob Stokes’s wife,—­she lived nigh the office, just across the road,—­she was there to say good-by, kissing of him, and crying on his shoulder.  I don’t know what difference that should make with Bob Stokes, but I snapped him up well, when he came along, and said good morning.

There were twenty-one of us just, on that gang, in on contract for Dove and Beadle.  Dove and Beadle did about the heaviest thing on woodland of anybody, about that time.  Good, steady men we were, most of us,—­none of your blundering Irish, that wouldn’t know a maple from a hickory, with their gin-bottles in their pockets,—­but our solid, Down-East Yankee heads, owning their farms all along