"No! I am better. You can see for yourself. I feel really stronger." And strange as it appeared, Jean spoke the truth. In some mysterious fashion the flood of anger coursing through her body seemed to have brought with it fresh life and energy. The tone of her voice was clearer, a tinge of colour showed on her cheeks. She looked her husband in the face with cold, challenging eyes. "You took away my baby--my baby, and hid him for ever, without letting me have one sight of his face! Was that just? Was that fair? Does a woman wait all those months to be cheated at the end? It was a cruel thing to do." "But you were ill. Your own life was in danger. It would have killed you to be roused to hear that news. If you think it over, dear, you will understand." "It's easy to talk. You saw him. You can remember. I can't." Robert's face twitched. Yes! he remembered. All his life he would remember the small, dank face of his first-born--that pitiful image, so cruelly unlike the cherub of Jean's dreams. He had another memory also--the memory of a grey, rainy morning when he stood by his son's grave in the dreary city cemetery, while his wife lay unconscious at home, grudging each moment in his longing to be back beside her-- dreading to return to hear a worse report. Jean had been spared more than she knew--more than she would ever guess, for no word of his would enlighten her. It was not Robert Gloucester's custom to speak of his own woes. He sat by the bed holding Jean's slack hand, gazing at her with wistful, puzzled eyes. He loved her as surely no man had loved a woman before, but he could not comfort her. That was the tragic, the inexplicable fact. In the first great sorrow of life she thrust him aside. It was terribly hard for her, poor darling; a crushing blow, _but_ there was still so much for which to be thankful. Her own life was spared; they were given back to each other's love. Could she not realise, and be consoled? Poor Robert! As well expect the dead child to rise from its grave as Jean to develop patience in the crash of her first great grief. If she had fallen from one deep faint to another, if she had hysterically cried and sobbed, he could have understood and sympathised; but this bitter cry of rebellion was beyond his comprehension. At the moment when he most longed to draw near, the great barrier of temperament shut him out from his wife's heart. The darkness deepened in the room; the face of Jean on the pillow became dim and blurred, her hand lay slack and unresponsive in his grasp. Robert sat silent, his whole being expended in a prayer for strength and wisdom--for the power to say the right word to meet his wife's needs. "Beloved," he whispered softly. "Be patient! Be content with me a little longer. There will be others..." But what woman fresh from her fiery trial can take comfort in that thought? With a cry of pain Jean wrenched away her hand.