“Did he ever beat you?—­or what did the wretch do? Smith, I mean,” the Colonel asked, and Amy replied, “Oh, no; it wasn’t that.  It was a constant grind, grind,—­swear, swear,—­a breaking of my will, till I had none left.  He never struck me but once, and then it was throwing something instead of a blow.  It hit me here, and it has ached ever since.”

She put her hand to one side of her temple, and went on, “It was the night I heard baby was dead, and I said I could not sing,—­but he made me, and I broke down, and I don’t know much what happened after till you came.  I can’t remember.”

“Yes, but the baby,—­where did it die, and when?” the Colonel asked.

Amy had been getting quiet as she talked, but at the mention of the baby, she began to tremble again, and beat the air with her hands.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said.  “He took her away, and she died.  It is so black when I try to think how it was, and it goes from me.  Wait a bit!” She sat very still a moment, and then in a more natural voice said, “It may come back sometime, and then I will tell you.  It makes me worse to talk about it now.  It’s this way:  The inside of my head shakes all over.  The doctor said it was like a bottle full of something which must settle.  I am settling here where everybody speaks so low and kind, but when I am a little clear, with the sediment going down, if you shake up the bottle, it is thick and muddy again, and I can’t remember.”

“By Jove!” the Colonel said to himself, “that bottle business isn’t a bad comparison.  She is all shaken up, and I’ll let her settle.”

He did not question her again of her life with Homer Smith, or of the baby.  Both were dead, and he felt that it was just as well that they were.  Homer Smith ought to be dead, and as to the baby it would have been very upsetting in the house, and might have been queer, like the Harrises, or worse yet, like its cuss of a father.  On the whole, it was better as it was, although he was sorry for Amy, and would do all he could to make her happy, and some time, perhaps, she would remember, and tell him where the baby was buried, and he’d have it brought to Crompton, and put in the Crompton vault.  As for Homer Smith, his carcase might rot in the desert of Arizona, or anywhere, for aught he cared.  He was very gentle and patient with Amy, and watched the settling of the bottle with a great deal of interest.  Sometimes he wondered how much she remembered of her Florida life, if anything, and what effect the mention of Jaky and Mandy Ann would have upon her, and what effect it would have upon her if he took her to the palmetto clearing, and found the negroes, if living.  But pride still stood in the way.  More than thirty-five years of silence were between him and the past, which to all intents was as dead as poor Dory; and why should he pull aside the dark curtain, and let in the public gaze and gossip.  He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.  All he could do for Amy in other ways he would, and for her sake he controlled himself, mightily, becoming, as Peter said, like a turtle dove compared to what he once was, when the slightest crossing of his will roused him into fury.