From the day she had talked with Alice, there had been a noticeable improvement in Clarissa. She became less nervous, and, instead of shutting herself away from her family, she devoted most of her time to them, at times appearing almost like a young girl, full of enthusiasm for whatever she was doing.

Nearly every day since that time, Alice had been with her for awhile, but no one except Clarissa knew what transpired. William would have been most impatient at this had it not been for the change that had come over Clarissa;—she was again the light and life of the home.

Three times, when he believed the entire household asleep, he had sat alone, trying to straighten out in his mind the perplexing questions that had presented themselves since that memorable night when he and Merle had gone to hear the great singer who had proven to be his wife. From that time to this, there had been one continual sequence of surprises for him, few of which he was able to satisfactorily explain, even to himself.

Until then, he had logically deduced the cause of every circumstance occurring around him. Now he lacked that degree of confidence with which he had previously undertaken their solution. One point in this long chain of events always held him spellbound; that was his finding Clarissa at the concert. Supposing he had not gone to that concert;—what then?

It was by the merest chance he had gone, and nothing could have been further from his mind than that he should find Clarissa there. Not going to that concert would have meant living alone for him, as he had done so long. The life had been so lonely and desolate it was only endurable when he worked continually.

His resolve to go had been hasty and unpremeditated; what good influence had been working in his life just at that particular time, that he now had—

The interruption to this soliloquy was a pleasant one, for Clarissa's entrance had finished his retrospection.

"Why are you here all alone, William? Are you troubled in any way?"

"No; I was only thinking, and was unaware that time was passing. How did you know that I was here? I thought you were sleeping long ago."

"So I was; but I awoke suddenly, and had a strong inclination to know where you were and what you were doing. I suppose it was imagination, but I thought you called me."

"I did not. It would be selfish indeed, to call you from your sleep. You were probably tired and nervous; thus your sleep was not sound nor refreshing. Come, I will return with you, and put you to sleep again."

On two other occasions, under quite similar circumstances, she had come to him when he had been trying to unravel the same problem. The strangest part of the whole occurrence was that, when he had sat there on several previous occasions, willing her to come to him, he had sent her such suggestions as "Clarissa, come to me," she had failed to respond, although he knew the thoughts had carried sufficient power to draw her.

He was only a man; well meaning, but faulty and imperfect as all men are. It hurt his pride to be thwarted when he knew the strength of his power, so he threw all the force of his will into the demand, ashamed, even while he was doing it, to use so much power upon a sensitive, pregnant woman, but the disappointment was so great he rebelled against reason. He made up his mind he would not stop until she did come. He saw, later, that, while in the first instance, he was really anxious for her presence, as time passed, and she did not come, his feeling was unworthy a loving husband, bringing forth the practiced hypnotist who disliked to be disobeyed by a negative subject.

His strongest efforts were unsuccessful, however, and what was worse, Clarissa sent word she could not join the family at their meals, and made no appearance during the entire day.

When she came, he was surprised at her appearance; she was pale, and visibly uneasy, and darkly settled under the eyes; she shrank from him when he offered to treat her, saying all she needed was quiet repose alone. The repetition of this furnished another problem for William to solve. Not only his pride but his love was humiliated, and he secretly resolved that his book of personal experiences should not be finished and given to the public until he was a wiser man than he then was; he had thought he knew much, but he now realized that he understood only very little of the science upon which he had worked so zealously.

It was a pitiable condition, when he had no faith in either his subjects or himself, for he had always believed faith and confidence were the greatest requisites for a mesmerist. His years of hard and patient study seemed to have only brought him to this;—a state of general doubt.

Merle, who had been his most trusted subject, had proven false, and he could never again place implicit confidence in any one. In the past, any assertion that Merle had made was accepted without comment or doubt, but now, that he had been untruthful in the trance condition, being honest and trustworthy in his normal state, he knew absolute faith in a subject's assertions would never again be his.

Time passed rapidly. One night, as he was sitting alone, planning an excursion of pleasure for Augustus and Merle and Alice, knowing Clarissa was with her son, she came to him with a large book in her hand, and said:

"Here, William, is an exact account of all that transpired while Alice was entranced. Read it carefully, and see if she was correct when she told me we would give you knowledge you could not obtain for yourself, because of reasons she has explained. I have not placed one word of my own in it; everything is just as Alice gave it. You will see I have asked very few questions, permitting her to choose her own subjects. I bring it to you now, as I feel I shall soon be ill, and no one knows, at such times, exactly how it will terminate. Do not look so surprised; I am not afraid—I think all will be well, but I wanted you to have this with my explanations. According to Alice's statements, we, working together, have obtained better results in technical points and causes of the various phenomena than you could; we have not obtained the highest nor sublimest wisdom possible, but our united work of love (and that is what this book is) is but designed to be a stepping-stone for you, who have so much more knowledge and power in this line. She says you will glean from it such facts as will enable you to become a still greater power and more illustrious man in the realm of science. It is the work of love of two loyal hearts. I hope it will be to you all that she has prophesied. I cannot help the tears, William;—I am nervous."

"Come, you had better retire. You are trembling. How much pleasure you have given me by this loving work, I shall not try to express in words, but I will honestly try from the depths of my soul, to be the man you want me to be. It is a very faulty foundation, Clarissa, but with your love and patient help, I will do my best to be worthy of the wife who was never equaled upon earth, I think. You deserve a better man—"

"William, your words fill me with shame, for I am just one mass of weakness.—I am cross and irritable with both you and Augustus, but, William, if anything should happen to me, will you not try to forget all my faults, remembering only my love—"

"Clarissa! Clarissa! I will not listen even to your suggestion. Come, let me try to put you to sleep. I am so happy I want to be with you. You are never going to leave me again."

The next morning Augustus slept later than usual. He had been away with Merle all day. He woke fractious and nervous, and nothing seemed just right to him; dressing him was a slow and patient task to Dinah, who was patience itself. After several prolonged altercations, when she had great difficulty in appeasing him, she said:

"You just wait, Honey; Dinah has something for you that will make you just the proudest boy she ever saw. You just wait and see what Dinah brings you."

She passed quickly from the room, and soon returned with a small bundle in her arms.

Augustus did not look up when she entered, so did not notice his father was in the room. He was decidedly cross and petulant; he felt he was going to have something he liked to eat proffered to him, and had made up his mind firmly in advance that he would not eat it, no matter what it was. The first thing he knew, Dinah placed the bundle in his arms, and opening the covering, showed him a wee, tiny baby's face.

One expression chased another so rapidly over his face, that, keenly as William and Dinah watched him they were both unable to distinguish the predominating thought. They had all been anxious to know how Augustus would feel toward the little stranger. William wanted to be present when he first saw it, to assure him no one could possibly occupy his place in the affections of either father or mother, and was just about to step forward and speak, when the baby began to cry. At the first sound of that cry, Augustus looked up at Dinah, his face a perfect picture of wrath, and said:

"If you do not know how to take care of that baby, I do; I tell you it wants something to eat."

This was such an unexpected result William burst into a laugh, and, bending, kissed first Augustus and then the baby, saying, "Well, my son, see what has been given to us to love."

Augustus paid little attention to his father, but turned, instead, to Dinah, holding the baby close to him.

"Is that the way you treated me? It is a wonder I lived. It shall have something to eat, if I have to go and get it myself. You wait; I will go and tell mamma."

From that minute, there was only one anxiety about Augustus and the baby in any of their minds;—that was he would smother it or feed it. He would watch it sleeping, and drew it in every way. If it cried, he was anxious. He was a greater trouble than the baby. It had been expected he would be sensitive and jealous when the baby came, for he had been such an object of attention himself. They were totally unprepared for the real result.

He and Dinah were in a state of perpetual and continual combat, from his rising to his sleeping. It seemed to him there was never such another babe as that; he could not trust Dinah to care for it. All his boyish plans for the future were changed, and everything was gauged by "when sister is big enough." He insisted that she should be named for his mother;—the dearest name in the world to him.