Nothing so penetrating, so piercing, so feeble as the voice--for it was
a voice. It arose from a soul. There was palpitation in the murmur.
Nevertheless, it seemed uttered almost unconsciously. It was an appeal
of suffering, not knowing that it suffered or that it appealed.

The cry--perhaps a first breath, perhaps a last sigh--was equally
distant from the rattle which closes life and the wail with which it
commences. It breathed, it was stifled, it wept, a gloomy supplication
from the depths of night. The child fixed his attention everywhere, far,
near, on high, below. There was no one. There was nothing. He listened.
The voice arose again. He perceived it distinctly. The sound somewhat
resembled the bleating of a lamb.

Then he was frightened, and thought of flight.

The groan again. This was the fourth time. It was strangely miserable
and plaintive. One felt that after that last effort, more mechanical
than voluntary, the cry would probably be extinguished. It was an
expiring exclamation, instinctively appealing to the amount of aid held
in suspense in space. It was some muttering of agony, addressed to a
possible Providence.

The child approached in the direction from whence the sound came.

Still he saw nothing.

He advanced again, watchfully.

The complaint continued. Inarticulate and confused as it was, it had