Then we sung a child's hymn in praise of the God of little children, and
the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left her with
Wynnie. We too went early to bed.

About midnight my wife and I awoke together--at least neither knew which
waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with lulls
between its charges.

"There's a child crying!" said my wife, starting up.

I sat up too, and listened.

"There is some creature," I granted.

"It is an infant," insisted my wife. "It can't be either of the boys."

I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried on
some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did so. We
seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and in the
lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The night was
pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round the house till I
came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I heard it, but not so
clearly as before. I set out as well as I could judge in the direction of
the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern lighted only a few yards around
me, and the wind was so strong that it blew through every chink, and
threatened momently to blow it out. My wife was by my side before I knew
she was coming.

"My dear!" I said, "it is not fit for you to be out."