To-day it seems that I have been blessed with such a vision.  The mist will close in again, doubtless, wild with wind, chill with rain, sad with the cry of hoarse streams.  But I have seen!  I shall be weary and regretful and despairing many times; but I shall never wholly doubt again.

August 8, 1889.

Alec is ill to-day.  He was restless, flushed, feverish, yesterday evening, and I thought he must have caught cold; we put him to bed, and this morning we sent for the doctor.  He says there is no need for anxiety, but he does not know as yet what is the matter; his temperature is high, and we must just keep him quietly in bed, and wait.  I tell myself that it is foolish to be anxious, but I cannot keep a certain dread out of my mind; there is a weight upon my heart, which seems unduly heavy.  Perhaps it is only that it seems unusual, for he has never had an illness of any kind.  He is not to be disturbed, and Maggie is not allowed to see him.  Maud sate with him this morning, and he slept most of the time.  I looked in once or twice, but people coming and going tend to make him restless.  Maud herself is a marvel to me.  She must be even more anxious than I am, but she is serene, smiling, strong, with a cheerfulness that has no effort about it.  She laughed tenderly at my fears, and sent me out for a walk with Maggie.  I fear I was a gloomy companion.  In the evening I went to sit with Alec a little.  He was wakeful, large-eyed, and restless.  He lay with a book of stories from Homer, of which he is very fond, in one hand, the other clasping his black kitten, which slept peacefully on the counterpane.  He wanted to talk, but to keep him quiet I told him a long trivial story, full of unexciting incidents.  He lay musing, his head on his hand; then he seemed inclined to sleep, so I sate beside him, watching and wondering at the nearness and the dearness of the child to me, almost amazed at the revelation which this shadow of fear gives me of the place which he fills in my heart and life.  He tossed about for some time, and when I asked him if he wanted anything, he only put his hand in mine; a gesture not quite like him, as he is a boy who is averse to personal caresses or signs of emotion.  So I drew my chair up to the bed, and sate there with the little hot hand in my own.  Maud came up presently; but as he now seemed sound asleep, we left him in the care of the old nurse, and went down to dinner.  If we only knew what was the matter!  I argue with myself how much unnecessary misery I give myself by anticipating evil; but I cannot help it; and the weight on my mind grew heavier; half the night I lay awake, till at last, from sheer weariness, I fell into a sort of stupor of the senses, which fled from me in the dismal dawn, and the unmanning hideous fear leapt on me out of the dark, like a beast leaping upon its prey.

August 11, 1889.