In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was restless and uneasy until she heard the call.  Then follow it she would, even through storm and darkness.  It was then, she said, that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy were frightened by the tempest.  What wild, terrible rovings we had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I, sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best I could; then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she could not reach the child.

I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should not busy itself with my wife’s condition so long as I could keep it from becoming known.  We had no near relatives—­none with any right to share any trouble—­and whoso accepteth human love must bind it to his soul with pain.

I thought, however, that I should have medical advice, and I took our old doctor into my confidence.  He looked grave when he heard my story.  I did not like his expression nor his few guarded remarks.  He said he thought human aid would avail little; she might come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible, watch over her, protect her.  He needed not to tell me that.

The spring went out and summer came in—­and the horror deepened and darkened.  I knew that suspicions were being whispered from lip to lip.  We had been seen on our nightly quests.  Men and women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad.

One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called.  I knew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the old grandmother’s case sixty years before when the dream-child called in the day.  The doctor looked graver than ever when I told him, and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task.  I could not watch by day and night.  Unless I had assistance I would break down.

I did not think that I should.  Love is stronger than that.  And on one thing I was determined—­they should never take my wife from me.  No restraint sterner than a husband’s loving hand should ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling.

I never spoke of the dream-child to her.  The doctor advised against it.  It would, he said, only serve to deepen the delusion.  When he hinted at an asylum I gave him a look that would have been a fierce word for another man.  He never spoke of it again.

One night in August there was a dull, murky sunset after a dead, breathless day of heat, with not a wind stirring.  The sea was not blue as a sea should be, but pink—­all pink—­a ghastly, staring, painted pink.  I lingered on the harbor shore below the house until dark.  The evening bells were ringing faintly and mournfully in a church across the harbor.  Behind me, in the kitchen, I heard my wife singing.  Sometimes now her spirits were fitfully high, and then she would sing the old songs of her girlhood.  But even in her singing was something strange, as if a wailing, unearthly cry rang through it.  Nothing about her was sadder than that strange singing.