when she had prided herself on talking well, or even brilliantly.  Harvey could not help a feeling of compassion as she walked at his side.  For all his admiration of her self-conquest, and of the tasks to which she had devoted herself, he would have liked to free her from the daily mill.  She was young yet, and should taste of joy before the years began to darken about her.  But these are the thoughts that must not be uttered.  To show pity is to insult.  A merry nod to the friend who staggers on beneath his burden; and, even at his last gasp, the friend shall try to nod merrily back again.

He took leave of her at the station, saying that he meant to walk by the river homeward.  A foolish scruple, which would never have occurred to him but for Alma’s jealousy.

When he reached his house at about four o’clock, he felt very tired; it was a long time since he had walked so far.  Using his latch-key to enter, he crossed the hall to the study without seeing anyone or hearing a sound.  There was a letter on his table.  As he opened it, and began to read, the door —­ which he had left ajar —­ was pushed softly open; there entered Hughie, unusually silent, and with a strange look in his bright eyes.

‘Father —­ Louie says that baby is dead.’

Harvey’s hand fell.  He stared, stricken mute.

‘Father —­ I don’t want baby to be dead!  Don’t let baby be dead!’

The child’s voice shook, and tears came into his eyes.  Without a word, Rolfe hastened from the room and up the stairs.  As he reached the landing, a wail of grief sounded from somewhere near; could that be Alma’s voice?  In a moment he had knocked at her door.  He durst not turn the handle; the beating of his heart shook him in every limb.  The door opened, and the nurse showed her face.  A hurried whisper; the baby had died two hours ago, in convulsions.

Alma’s voice sounded again.

’Who is that? —­ Harvey —­ oh, come, come to me!  My little baby is dead!’

He sat alone with her for an hour.  He scarcely knew her for his wife, so unlike herself had she become under the stress of passionate woe; her face drawn in anguish, yet illumined as he had never seen it; her voice moving on a range of notes which it had never sounded.  The little body lay pressed against her bosom; she would not let it be taken from her.  Consolation was idle.  Harvey tried to speak the thought which was his first and last as he looked at the still, waxen face; the thought of thankfulness, that this poor feeble little being was saved from life; but he feared to seem unfeeling.  Alma could not yet be comforted.  The sight of the last pitiful struggles had pierced her to the heart; she told of it over and over again, in words and tones profoundly touching.

The doctor had been here, and would return in the evening.  It was Alma now who had to be cared for; her state might easily become dangerous.

When Harvey went downstairs again, he met Hughie and his nurse in the hall.  The little boy ran to him.