’Did they love as I love
    When they lived by the sea? 
    Did they wait as I wait
    For the days that may be?’

And then, with a start he finds himself in ‘The Garden of Sleep,’ and just on the edge of the cliff, reaching over to pick some poppies is a child, a little girl with golden hair.

In an instant he is at her side, and without saying a word for fear of starting her, he catches her in his arms.

‘Mummy, mummy, don’t,’ she cries, and then seeing that it is a stranger her anger is roused still more.  ’Put me down, how dare lou touch me, me wants the flowers.’

‘Now look here,’ replies Paul.  ’Do you know, you might have fallen over.  It is very dangerous to go so near the edge.  If I get you the flowers, promise me you will go away,’—­no answer—­so he puts her down, he picks the flowers, and gravely hands them to her.

‘Sank lou,’ she says, taking them in her little fat hand, ’sank lou, but I could have gottened them meself.’

Paul smiles, wondering who she reminds him of.

‘What’s lour name?’ she asks suddenly.

‘Paul,’ he replies, promptly, ‘what is yours, and who are you with?’

‘I doesn’t know what’s my name is,’ she answers, gravely, ’Mummy always calls me Baby, I’m wif Mummy.  Does lou know Mummy?’

‘I do not think I have that pleasure,’ says he, ’but I should like to speak to her,’ thinking to reprove her for her carelessness in letting the child wander about so far away.

‘Vis way,’ says the little girl catching hold of his hand, and turning down a path among the tombstones, ’Mummy always comes to a little tiny grave.’

Paul goes with her, wondering why he does so.  When, why is it? that she is taking him to the grave of his....  And, good heavens! the person the child calls ‘Mummy’ is kneeling beside it, her head bent, apparently not hearing their approach.

‘Oh, Mummy look,’ cries the child, ’look what bootiful flowers me’s gottened, him wouldn’t let me get them meself.  Look at him, Mummy,’ she urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, ‘him’s name is Paul.’

She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.

‘Clotilde,’ at length he says, and his voice is low, ‘you here.’

Her head is once more bowed—­

‘You here,’ he repeats, ’here at the grave of your child and’—­with a slight pause ’mine.  It is four years since I saw you last, and now to meet you like this.’

No sound comes from the kneeling figure.  ‘Where is ... he?’ Paul asks in a hoarse unnatural voice.

‘Dead,’ she whispers.

‘Ah!’ and he breathes a sigh of relief, ‘so you always come here,’ he says, repeating the little girl’s words, and then remembering her.  ’Good God!’ he cries, ‘that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,’ he bends forward and touches her almost roughly, ’for Heaven’s sake, speak, and say she is not your child, but no!  I would rather not hear it,’ and overcome by a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of passionate strife rends his very soul.