He watched the baby’s pretty, quaint pretense of “being mamma,” and hearkened to the drip and plash of the rain until the gnawing in his stomach re-asserted itself importunately. He knew what it meant. It was the demand of the devil-appetite he had created long ago—his Frankenstein, his Old Man of the Sea, his body of death, lashed fast to him, lying down when he lay down, rising up at his awakening, keeping step with him, however he might try to flee. The lust he had courted rashly—now become flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone. His wife had carried off the phial of opium. But he had secreted a supply of the drug for such emergencies since she had found out the phosphate device and privately confiscated the stout blue bottle. He always carried a small Greek Testament in his hip pocket. Mrs. Wayt’s furtive search of his clothes every night, after making sure that he was asleep, had not extended to the removal of the sacred volume. He arose stealthily, steadied his reeling head by holding hard to the back of his neck with one hand, while the other caught at the chairs and bed-foot; tiptoed to the closet, found his black cloth pantaloons, drew out the Testament, and extracted from the depths beneath a wad of silken, rustleless paper. Within was a lump of dark brown paste. “Tan’y! tan’y!” twittered Annie’s sweet, small pipe. “Give baby a piece! p’ease, dee papa!” He hurried back into bed. If the child were overheard Hetty might look in. And Hester’s sharp ears were across the hall. “No, baby; papa has no candy.” He was so startled and unmanned that he had to wet his lips with a tongue almost as parched before he could articulate. “Papa’s head aches badly. Will Annie sing him to sleep?” Hester heard, through her stupor of misery, the weak little voice and the thump of the low rocking chair as baby crooned to the dolly cuddled in her arms and to “dee papa,” the song learned from Hester’s self: “S’eep, baby, s’eep. The angels watch ’y s’eep. The fairies s’ake ’e d’eamland t’ee, An’ all’e d’eams ’ey fall ow’ee. S’eep, baby, s’eep!” The rain fell straight and strong. The heavy pour had beaten all motion out of the air, but the gurgling of water pipes and the resonance of the tinned roof gave the impression of a tumultuous storm. Through the register and chimney arose a far-off humming from the cellar, where Homer was “redding up.” Hester’s acute ears divided the sound into notes and words: “An’ we buried her deep, yes! deep among the rocks. On the banks of the Oma-ha!” Annie stopped singing. “Dolly mus’ lie down in her twadle, an’ mamma mate her some tea!” Hester heard her say. At another time she would have speculated, perhaps anxiously, as to the processes going on when the clatter of metal and the tinkle of china arose, accompanied by the fitful bursts of song and a monologue of exclamations.