more was empty.

In the collapse that followed, she heard her husband's voice, as though
coming from some great distance. Her own replies she heard as well. Both
were so strange and unlike their normal speech, the very words
unnatural.

"What is it, dear? Why do you wake me _now_ ?" And his voice whispered
it with a sighing sound, like wind in pine boughs.

"A moment since something went past me through the air of the room. Back
to the night outside it went." Her voice, too, held the same note as of
wind entangled among too many leaves.

"My dear, it _was_ the wind."

"But it called, David. It was calling _you_--by name!"

"The air of the branches, dear, was what you heard. Now, sleep again, I
beg you, sleep."

"It had a crowd of eyes all through and over it--before and behind--"
Her voice grew louder. But his own in reply sank lower, far away, and
oddly hushed.

"The moonlight, dear, upon the sea of twigs and boughs in the rain, was
what you saw."

"But it frightened me. I've lost my God--and you--I'm cold as death!"