Some one came in, over to the bed, leaned over, jerked the quilt away. The bundle was taken up. At last they were taking her Sin away. They had left it too long beside her. She felt herself looked steadily upon. She opened her eyes. “Did you--have you been awake since I left the room?” The motherly voice was stern, suspicious, reluctant, too. “I was asleep.” “I fixed the quilt carefully before I left. It was over the baby’s face when I came back.” Why did they trouble her about a baby? It was her Sin she had covered up so that no one could see it. “The quilt,” she whispered painfully. “I pulled the quilt up. I was cold.” She settled down in bed. A breeze, soft and full of the resinous breath of hemlock came through the slightly opened window and blew her eyelids down. Leaves began piling upon her in layers, soft and pressing, trying to smother her. The dream began again. She was walking on a road through the forest. The road was narrow, oh, so narrow, she could hardly keep on it, narrow, and hard and smooth like glass. The wall of forest to the right kept bowing, the trees swept down, their branches lashed her. The wall of forest to the left kept bowing, its branches lashed her. The branches were full of eyes, eyes that burned when the branches lashed. The eyes _knew_. “I must tell them the whole truth,” she said to herself, but she knew that she said it aloud and that the forest heard it. “Huah! Huah!” The wind swept through the branches. “The truth! The truth!” The wind blew the words through the branches. A tall strong tree with great bulging eyes swept down upon her. “I wanted him!” she screamed. The trees stopped lashing. The eyes became ears. She knelt before them feeling their compassion. “I tried not to, at first--but when he touched me, I wanted him. He spoke words of poetry, words that he knew out of a book he brought back with him from his travel. ‘Your gray eyes are like pools. I lose myself in them.’ He took the pins from my hair. ‘Your hair is a mesh. I am caught in it. I cannot escape.’ He held me to him. ‘Your body is softer than this milkweed down. Shall I float away with it?’ He had never spoken that way before. His mother wouldn’t have believed that he talked that way.”