“Dear Hugh,” she said, drawing his head down to her breast, “I love you when you are in a rage like this. But, darling boy,” she paused a few moments, “I am going to tell you something, and promise me you will be very, very brave. Indeed, you must be brave, for I am such a coward. I fear there is something wrong, terribly wrong with me. I have had such a strange, heavy pain here for so long.” She laid her hand upon her stomach. “I am afraid, Hugh, afraid.” Her voice died away in a whisper. He was about to break forth into indignant, scornful protest against such nonsense, but when he looked into her face his words died at his lips, his heart grew cold and he could only continue gazing at her. “Don’t, Hugh!” she cried. “You must not look like that, or I cannot bear it.” For answer he groaned like a man who has been stricken with a death wound, put his arms round her and held her in a shuddering embrace. For a moment or two his world had gone black, but only for a moment or two. “No, Marion,” he said, with resolute voice, “we shall not yield to our fears. You gave me an awful shock. There may be something quite seriously wrong. It would be foolish to say anything else. I have seen you failing in strength for a few months past. But we are not going to give up. There are wonderful doctors in the world today. We are going to fight and fight with all we’ve got to fight with.” “Thank you, dear Hugh. You are a brave man.” Then she added brightly, “I want you to do something for me today.” “Anything! Today or any day,” he said fervently. “I only hope it is hard enough. What is it, dear?” “Finish that picture. You know your failing, dear. It is going to be wonderful.” He looked at her aghast. “You have surely asked a hard one,” he murmured. “I know, dear, but I want to sit here and watch that picture grow under your hands till it is quite perfect. Come, Hugh, I am feeling better. I have been feeling much better the last few weeks. It was the sudden excitement and the heavy work this morning. The little chap is quite a weight, you know. I shall be better tomorrow. Now, get to work, dear boy. See, that light over the left background is too high, I think.” Dully his eyes followed her finger, as she pointed out defects and excellencies in the picture. Suddenly he picked up his brush. “I’ll do it! I’ll finish it for your sake! I haven’t often done it, but I’ll finish this before I do a stroke of anything else.” There was still abundance of light throughout the long spring afternoon, while hour after hour he wrought at his canvas under the inspiration of a great scene, listening to his wife’s approving or critical comments, discussing with her lights and shadows, distance, composition, balance, giving her the while a simple and perfect joy. As the best of the light failed she drew him away from his easel and, after tea, out into the soft spring evening.