"Are you--forgive my asking--poor?"

"We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress. My husband is
very, very ill of a lingering disorder. He will never recover--"

"You check yourself. If it is for want of the encouraging word you spoke
of, take it from me. I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice."

"God bless you!" she replied with a burst of tears, and gave him her
trembling hand.

"Compose yourself. I cannot be composed if you are not, for to see you
weep distresses me beyond expression. Speak freely to me. Trust me."

She shaded her face with her veil, and after a little while spoke calmly.
Her voice had the ring of Polly's.

"It is not that my husband's mind is at all impaired by his bodily
suffering, for I assure you that is not the case. But in his weakness,
and in his knowledge that he is incurably ill, he cannot overcome the
ascendancy of one idea. It preys upon him, embitters every moment of his
painful life, and will shorten it."

She stopping, he said again: "Speak freely to me. Trust me."

"We have had five children before this darling, and they all lie in their
little graves. He believes that they have withered away under a curse,
and that it will blight this child like the rest."

"Under what curse?"