re 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.

I cannot and dare not write of these days. The child is very ill; it is
some obscure inflammation of the brain-tissue. I had an insupportable
fear that it might have resu