he was safely harbored with the logs at Utopia in the dreary distance.
But she noticed that day, when she went out to feed the chickens and
look after the cow, that the tide was up to the little fence of their
garden-patch, and the roar of the surf on the south beach, though miles
away, she could hear distinctly. And she began to think that she would
like to have someone to talk with about matters, and she believed that
if it had not been so far and so stormy, and the trail so impassable,
she would have taken the baby and have gone over to Ryckman's, her
nearest neighbor. But then, you see, he might have returned in the
storm, all wet, with no one to see to him; and it was a long exposure
for baby, who was croupy and ailing.

But that night, she never could tell why, she didn't feel like sleeping
or even lying down. The storm had somewhat abated, but she still "sat
and sat," and even tried to read. I don't know whether it was a Bible or
some profane magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably the
latter, for the words all ran together and made such sad nonsense that
she was forced at last to put the book down and turn to that dearer
volume which lay before her in the cradle, with its white initial leaf
as yet unsoiled, and try to look forward to its mysterious future. And,
rocking the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but still
was wide-awake as ever.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when she at last lay down in her clothes.
How long she slept she could not remember, but she awoke with a dreadful
choking in her throat, and found herself standing, trembling all over,
in the middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, and she
was "saying something." The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked up
and down trying to hush it when she heard a scratching at the door. She
opened it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, their