ularly strong. Yes, but the
lungs were not always attacked. Tuberculosis, like other things, follows
the line of least resistance. Her brain could never have been very
strong.--"Her brain was as strong as yours or mine, sir. You don't know;
she has had a miserable life."--Ah, any shock or strong excitement, or
any great drain on the system, was enough to bring on brain fever.

In other words, what could you expect after so much agony, so much
thinking, and the striving of that life within her life, the hope that
would have renewed the world for her--the fruit of three days and three
nights of happiness? It was a grave case, but--oh yes, while there was
life there was hope.

So they talked. But she was far away from them, lost in her dream. And in
her dream the dead child and the unborn child were one.

By night the tumult in her brain was raging like a fire. She had bad
dreams. They were full of noises. First, the hiss of a thin voice singing
from a great distance an insistent, intolerable song; then the roar of
hell, and the hissing of a thousand snakes of flame. And now a crowd of
evil faces pressed on her; they sprang up quick out of the darkness,
and then they left her alone. She was outside in the streets. It was
twilight, a dreadful twilight; and perhaps it was only a dream, for it is
always twilight in dreams. She was all in white, in her night-gown, and
it was open at the neck too. She clutched at it to hide--what was it she
wanted to hide? She had forgotten--forgotten.

But that was nothing, only a dream, and she was awake now. It was light;
it was broad daylight. Then why was she out here, in the street, in her
night-gown? She must hide herself--anywhere--down that dark alley, quick!
No, not there--there was a bundle--a dead baby.

No, no, she knew all about it now; there was a fire, and she had got up
out of her bed to save some one--to save--"Nevill! Nevill!" She must run
or she would be late. Ah, the crowd again, and those faces--all looking
at her and wondering. They were running too, they were hunting her down,
the brutes, driving her before them with pitchforks. The shame of it, the
shame of it! Who was singing that hideous song? It was about her, What
had she done? She had done nothing--nothing. She was bearing the sins of
all women, the sins of the whole world. It was swords now--sharp burning
swords, and they hurt her back--her head--Nevill!

The dream changed. Mrs. Nevill Tyson was wandering abo