“And if it did?” I said, taking her on my knee, after shutting this book into a drawer. Her heart was beating, she was trembling. “Oh, Lilia!” I said. “I thought I had married a woman who would bravely face life at my side, not shrink and cower at shadows like a nervous horse.” Then I talked seriously to her. Many husbands in my position would have been able to use the argument of maternal responsibility to urge her to be more matter-of-fact, less absurd in her fancifulness, and I said so. “You dislike giving me pain, dear, I know,” I said. “And your horror of the poor little one God may give to us is a great pain to me. Other women rejoice at such a prospect.” She drew herself away from my arm and looked fixedly at me. “What other women do you mean?” she said. “All women, at least most women,” was my answer. “Lilia, I cannot understand this feeling, or rather this want of feeling, in you. Tell me truly, frankly, darling, why do you hate the idea of a child—our child?” She took my face between her hands and kissed me. “Because,” she spoke passionately, “you may love it—would love it; and I cannot spare one thought, one word, one look of yours!” I sighed, I could not help it. Then I reminded her of a great oak we had seen during an expedition with Dr. Hildyard into the adjacent county. We had paused to look at the giant, around whose spreading branches ivy had climbed and twisted until bough after bough was dying. She had said: “That ivy clings to the tree like I cling to you.” “The ivy is choking the life out of the oak,” said I; “it is to be hoped you will not do the same by me.” I said it, and she took it, jestingly. But, as I told her, if matters do not mend—if I cannot at least have freedom for study, or to go to town now and then on business and to look people up, my end may be the same as the oak’s. She was all penitence, all promises; nor would she leave the study until I had given her my word that I would for the future go on my own way regardless of her feelings, which she would try to modify by degrees. Before we retired for the night, I had promised to go to town to-day for some scientific works I particularly want, and to transact neglected business. _Sunday, May —._ Only two days! It seems weeks—weeks of horror, anxiety—since I wrote those last words. I went to town, got my books, saw Dr. Hildyard, etcetera, and returned by the seven o’clock train. Thomas was to meet me at the station with the dogcart. He was there. At first I noticed nothing unusual, but the instant I reached my seat he drove off at a tremendous rate. “Gently, gently!” I cried. “What’s wrong with Firefly?” “Nothing’s wrong with the _hoss_, sir,” he said, gruffly; “but we’ve had visitors to-day, and whether it’s them or not I don’t know, but the missus is upset, like.” “Is your mistress ill?” I cried, startled, dreading I knew not what.