arms fall feebly back upon the tumbled coverlet, and the wistful eyes
grow still, and a woman steps softly forward, and draws the lids down
over them; then the man goes back to his plans and schemes.

But in the night, when the great house is silent, he steals up to the
room where the child still lies, and pushes back the white, uneven sheet.

"Dead--dead," he mutters. Then he takes the tiny corpse up in his arms,
and holds it tight against his breast, and kisses the cold lips, and the
cold cheeks, and the little, cold, stiff hands.

And at that point my story becomes impossible, for I dream that the dead
child lies always beneath the sheet in that quiet room, and that the
little face never changes, nor the limbs decay.

I puzzle about this for an instant, but soon forget to wonder; for when
the Dream Fairy tells us tales we are only as little children, sitting
round with open eyes, believing all, though marvelling that such things
should be.

Each night, when all else in the house sleeps, the door of that room
opens noiselessly, and the man enters and closes it behind him. Each
night he draws away the white sheet, and takes the small dead body in his
arms; and through the dark hours he paces softly to and fro, holding it
close against his breast, kissing it and crooning to it, like a mother to
her sleeping baby.

When the first ray of dawn peeps into the room, he lays the dead child
back again, and smooths the sheet above her, and steals away.