The Argosy — page 247: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

230 My Saturdays. be done for what it contained, we left the solemn little form alone, and all went to rest. Til. SOMEWHERE in the heavy middle hours of the night, I was awoke. I knew that I had not waked of my own accord, and my mind felt round confusedly for the cause. Soon I became aware of a strange sweet sound which had been in my ears without reaching my consciousness, and somehow there darted into my mind the beautiful Arabic version of ‘‘ the still small voice ”——“ a voice singing in silence.” It was a voice—a woman’s voice—singing at the dead of night in the silent house. I sat up in bed, and listened stupidly ; then collecting my senses, and taking my courage with both hands, I sprang up, struck a light, hurried on dressing-gowr and slippers, and went out on the lobby. There I heard the voice quite clearly, coming from downstairs. I cautiously descended, trembling with undefined terror. ‘The voice sang on—a soft low cradle-song: it came from the drawing-room. I went to the door, shading my candle; it was ajar: there was no light within, but I could see a tall white figure moving about, and I pushed the door wide open. I knew that I should see Lena, and it was she. She did not hear me come, and her back was toward me. She had something in her arms, which she was nursing and fondling ; and she was bending her head over it, and singing her lullaby to it. To z#? To what? She turned, and came towards me, and then I saw. May I never again see anything so awful. Her great dull black eyes were wide open in her ghastly face, but they saw nothing; she was clothed only for sleep, but she felt no cold; and in her arms she carried little Tim. His fair head drooped over one arm, and his feet over the other; and she walked up and down, crooning her sweet song to the unhearing ears. She did not see me, or anything else, for she never moved her eyes, except when she bent her head sometimes over her burden; yet in some wonderful way she kept clear of all obstacles, and back and forward, back and forward, she moved, her bare feet noiseless on the soft carpet, and the only sound that sweet and terrible singing. I stood, unable to speak or move, helplessly watching the monoto- nous pacing of the sleeping woman, as she cradled the dead child in her arms, and tried to soothe the slumber that would never be broken. At last I recovered my self-control, and forced myself to go forward, and touch her. I took her by the arm, and called her by name. She stopped singing. ‘“‘ Ves,” she said, in a strange, far-away voice. ‘’ My dear, what are you doing down here ?” “T am nursing Joso. He isso cold—so cold.” And she gathered the poor little body closer to her warm breast. ‘Let me take him,” I begged, with an inward shiver. “ He is too Eomicbooks,.¢o m