“This is the book,” he said slowly, and with frequent pauses, “on which we have worked so long, it is at last complete. It is sad, is it not, that it is only I, who am here to see the end? I have been more than once afraid that I should be unable to finish it, it is hard to work alone, old habits are strong within us—I will attempt no new work.” He swayed a little and leaned heavily on the table. “You, my daughter, have your work here, you must uphold the house of your husband and of his first-born; to-morrow I will go home.” Gwen attempted to say something, but he motioned her to silence. “You may perhaps think your duty is with me, it is not, it is here, and here you must remain to guard your husband’s lands, and to cherish his child. It is the soul that is just entering life that needs all your care, not that which is done with it.” Then he went and stood over the child, and suddenly some vague old feeling surged up in him and he raised his hands that trembled above its head, and his lips were moved by a mute blessing. Mrs. Fellowes intended going herself early that week as she was a good deal wanted at home, but she could not bring herself to leave Gwen entirely alone, and then she had not heard a word of Humphrey from his wife’s lips for more than a month now, and his letters to her, after one she got assuring her of his perfect recovery, were anything but satisfactory, they were short and dry and told her nothing. Then, as the missionary he was in pursuit of, had escaped through the intervention of a tribe of friendly blacks some other way, and was already on his way home, probably preparing his experiences for the religious press, Humphrey’s continued presence in Africa was simply ridiculous, and she was in a fever of anxiety as to the next step of this most trying couple. A few nights after, she was very glad she had decided to remain. She had just fallen off into her first sleep when she was awakened by a violent shake, and found Gwen standing above her white and rigid and too terrified to speak. She pulled her out of the room and into the nursery by her nightdress sleeve, to show her her baby in very bad convulsions in the nurse’s arms. The whole night through, the two women watched the strange cruel possession that twisted and contorted the small flower-like face and the tender limbs, and next day the spasms ceased and a sharp attack of bronchitis set in. Gwen’s mute tense agony upset even the old doctor, who as a rule was emotion-proof enough; he would have given a great deal to have been able to reassure her, but he could not in conscience do so, the child was about as dangerously ill as it was possible for it to be. But he came of a lusty stock, and fought gallantly for his life, while his mother hovered breathless above him, and allowed no one but herself to touch him for any service, and when she absolutely could keep her eyes open no longer, she would trust him to no one but Mrs. Fellowes.