“I was in constant attendance upon her.  About a week after your birth, as near as I can guess, just in the gloaming, I heard yet again the awful clank—­only once.  Nothing followed till about midnight.  Your mother slept, and you lay asleep beside her.  I sat by the bedside.  A horror fell upon me suddenly, though I neither saw nor heard anything.  Your mother started from her sleep with a cry, which sounded as if it came from far away, out of a dream, and did not belong to this world.  My blood curdled with fear.  She sat up in bed, with wide staring eyes, and half-open rigid lips, and, feeble as she was, thrust her arms straight out before her with great force, her hands open and lifted up, with the palms outwards.  The whole action was of one violently repelling another.  She began to talk wildly as she had done before you were born, but, though I seemed to hear and understand it all at the time, I could not recall a word of it afterwards.  It was as if I had listened to it when half asleep.  I attempted to soothe her, putting my arms round her, but she seemed quite unconscious of my presence, and my arms seemed powerless upon the fixed muscles of hers.  Not that I tried to constrain her, for I knew that a battle was going on of some kind or other, and my interference might do awful mischief.  I only tried to comfort and encourage her.  All the time, I was in a state of indescribable cold and suffering, whether more bodily or mental I could not tell.  But at length I heard yet again the clank of the shoe.  A sudden peace seemed to fall upon my mind—­or was it a warm, odorous wind that filled the room?  Your mother dropped her arms, and turned feebly towards her baby.  She saw that he slept a blessed sleep.  She smiled like a glorified spirit, and fell back exhausted on the pillow.  I went to the other side of the room to get a cordial.  When I returned to the bedside, I saw at once that she was dead.  Her face smiled still, with an expression of the uttermost bliss.”

Nurse ceased, trembling as overcome by the recollection; and I was too much moved and awed to speak.  At length, resuming the conversation, she said:  “You see it is no wonder, Duncan, my dear, if, after all this, I should find, when I wanted to fix the date of your birth, that I could not determine the day or the hour when it took place.  All was confusion in my poor brain.  But it was strange that no one else could, any more than I. One thing only I can tell you about it.  As I carried you across the room to lay you down—­for I assisted at your birth—­I happened to look up to the window.  Then I saw what I did not forget, although I did not think of it again till many days after—­a bright star was shining on the very tip of the thin crescent moon.”

“Oh, then,” said I, “it is possible to determine the day and the very hour when my birth took place.”

“See the good of book-learning!” replied she.  “When you work it out, just let me know, my dear, that I may remember it.”