iet as she talked, but at the mention of the
baby, she began to tremble again, and beat the air with her hands.

"I don't know, I don't know," she said. "He took her away, and she died.
It is so black when I try to think how it was, and it goes from me. Wait
a bit!" She sat very still a moment, and then in a more natural voice
said, "It may come back sometime, and then I will tell you. It makes me
worse to talk about it now. It's this way: The inside of my head shakes
all over. The doctor said it was like a bottle full of something which
must settle. I _am_ settling here where everybody speaks so low and
kind, but when I am a little clear, with the sediment going down, if you
shake up the bottle, it is thick and muddy again, and I can't remember."

"By Jove!" the Colonel said to himself, "that bottle business isn't a
bad comparison. She is all shaken up, and I'll let her settle."

He did not question her again of her life with Homer Smith, or of the
baby. Both were dead, and he felt that it was just as well that they
were. Homer Smith ought to be dead, and as to the baby it would have
been very upsetting in the house, and might have been queer, like the
Harrises, or worse yet, like its _cuss_ of a father. On the whole, it
was better as it was, although he was sorry for Amy, and would do all he
could to make her happy, and some time, perhaps, she would remember, and
tell him where the baby was buried, and he'd have it brought to
Crompton, and put in the Crompton vault. As for Homer Smith, his carcase
might rot in the desert of Arizona, or anywhere, for aught he cared. He
was very gentle and patient with Amy, and watched the settling of the
bottle with a great deal of interest. Sometimes he wondered how much she
remembered of her Florida life, if anything, and what effect the mention
of Jaky and Mandy Ann would have upon her, and what effect it would have
upon her if he took her to the palmetto clearing, and found the negroes,
if living. But pride still stood in the way. More than thirty-five years
of silence were between him and the past, which to all intents was as
dead as poor Dory; and why should he pull aside the dark curtain, and
let in the public gaze and gossip. He couldn't and he wouldn't. All he
could do for Amy in other ways he would, and for her sake he controlled
himself, mightily, becoming, as Peter said, like a turtle dove compared
to what he once was, when the slightest crossing of his will roused him
int