`` He is calling me , '' she cried . `` Oh , do n't you hear him ? Ca n't you hear him ? Listen -- listen -- the little , lonely cry ! Yes , yes , my precious , mother is coming . Wait for me . Mother is coming to her pretty boy ! '' I caught her hand and let her lead me where she would . Hand in hand we followed the dream-child down the harbor shore in that ghostly , clouded moonlight . Ever , she said , the little cry sounded before her . She entreated the dream-child to wait for her ; she cried and implored and uttered tender mother-talk . But , at last , she ceased to hear the cry ; and then , weeping , wearied , she let me lead her home again . What a horror brooded over that spring -- that so beautiful spring ! It was a time of wonder and marvel ; of the soft touch of silver rain on greening fields ; of the incredible delicacy of young leaves ; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset . The whole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness , instinct with all the evasive , fleeting charm of spring and girlhood and young morning . And almost every night of this wonderful time the dream-child called his mother , and we roved the gray shore in quest of him . 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 XXXXX my wife 's condition so long as I could keep it from becoming known .
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