Gilderman ate his breakfast alone. As soon as he had finished he went up-stairs again. The door of his wife's room was open, and the nurse came to tell him that he might come in. Her morning toilet was over; her face looked singularly sweet and pure and cool lying in the half shade of the pillow. She welcomed him with a smile. As Gilderman came up to the bedside, she softly opened the cover that hid the child's face. Gilderman bent over and looked at it. Again he wondered that he should be no more sensible to the fact of paternity. The joy was there, but it did not seem to attach itself to its object. He kissed his wife, and then sat down in a chair beside the bed. She held his hand. The only piece of jewelry he wore was a plain gold ring upon his little finger. She had a habit of turning this ring around and around upon the finger, and she did so now. "Where were you yesterday, Henry?" she said, after a while. "Oh, I did so long for you. I kept calling for you all the time. Afterwards I was glad you weren't here. But where were you? They sent everywhere for you--to the club and up to the riding-school, and they even telegraphed out to De Witt's." Gilderman leaned very tenderly over her. His heart filled at the soft touch of her hand upon his. Then he suddenly determined to tell her all. "I went out to Brookfield," he said. And then, without giving himself time to draw back from his determination, he continued: "The fact is, Florence, I didn't want to trouble you about it lately, and so I didn't say anything about it, but--er--the fact is, I have become extremely interested in the doings of that Man whom people are talking so much about, and I went to Brookfield to see Him." "Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Mrs. Gilderman. "Yes. I dare say you think it is foolish. I think it was foolish myself now; but I was led into it all. Day before yesterday I was down at Brookfield with the De Witts, you know. Well, while I was there I was curious to see Him. I saw Him do something; I could not get away from it, and I kept thinking about it all the time." "Was that what made you so strange and absent?" "Yes." "What was it you saw?" Then he told her about the raising of Lazarus from the dead. She listened in silence. After he was done she lay still and silent for a moment or two. "Oh, Henry," she said, "how perfectly horrid! Isn't it dreadful! I don't see how you could bear to see it. I don't see why He's allowed to do such things. You don't really think He did bring a dead man back to life, do you?" Gilderman was silent for a moment or two. "No," he said, "of course I couldn't believe such a thing as that. But I can't understand it at all. There were things about it I can't fathom at all. It was very terrible. I don't see how it could have been a trick." "But you don't believe any man could bring another man back to life after he had been dead four days, do you?"