I loved my dreams, but alas, they were not enough. After a tortured
hour or two at my desk, living in myself the agonies of my characters,
suffering the pangs of the wife with two husbands and both living,
struggling in the water with the children, fruit of the first union,
dying with number two and blowing my last Bubbles heavenward--after all
these emotions, I was done out.

Jane came in one day and found me prostrate on my couch, with a light of
sufering in my eyes.

"Dearest!" cried Jane, and gliding to my side, fell on her knees.

"Jane!"

"What is it? You are ill?"

I could hardly more than whisper. In a low tone I said:

"He is dead."

"Dearest!"

"Drowned!"

At first she thought I meant a member of my Familey. But when she
understood she looked serious.

"You are too intence, Bab," she said solemly. "You suffer too much. You
are wearing yourself out."