As to these deliriums, she tried to picture what they must be: the baby hurled from his little crib--that made her shudder with rage; she should not be afraid of the madman, then; she should attack him in return! Sometimes it was Cicely whom she saw, Cicely, shrinking under blows; it must have been something heavy and sharp, a billet of wood, perhaps, that had caused the scars across her white breast. She remembered that once, when inwardly exasperated by Cicely's fresh fairness, she had accused her of never having known what it was to be really tired in all her life. Cicely had answered, rather hesitatingly, "I don't know that I have ever been _tired_, exactly." She had not been tired--no. She had only been half killed. The poor little girl's muteness, her occasional outbursts of wild sport, her jests and laughter, her abstractions, and the coldness sometimes seen in her beautiful eyes, were these the results of suffering? She questioned Miss Sabrina a little. "She has always been the same, except that since her second marriage she is much more quiet," replied the unconscious aunt. "Until then she was like quicksilver, she used to run through the thickets so swiftly that no one could follow her, and she used to play ball by the hour with--" Here the speaker paused, disconcerted. "With Jack," Eve added, her face contracting with the old pain. Miss Sabrina had at last perceived this pain, and the discovery had stopped her affectionate allusions. But she did not forget--Eve often found her carefully made wreaths laid upon Jack's grave. As for Eve herself, she never brought a flower; she walked to and fro beside the mound, and the sojourn generally ended in angry thoughts. Why should other people keep their loved ones, and she be bereft? What had she done, what had Jack done, that was so wrong? God was not good, because He was not kind; people did not ask Him to create them, but when once He had done it for His own pleasure, and there they were, helpless, in His world, why should He torture them so? To make them better? Why didn't He make them better in the beginning, when He was creating them? Or else not make them at all! One afternoon during the fourth week after their return to Romney, she was on her way back with Miss Sabrina from Singleton Island; the two had been dining there, the Southern three-o'clock dinner, and now at sunset the row-boat was bringing them home. To Eve the visit had been like a day's truce, a short period, when one merely waits; the afternoon was beautiful, the Sound like a mirror; the home-island, when they left it, had been peacefully lovely, the baby from his wagon kissing his hand to them, and Dilsey squatting on the bank by his side, a broad grin of contentment on her dusky face. Cicely had declined the invitation, sending a jocular message to "little Rupert," which inspired him with laughter all day.