The more honor to the exceptions!
"But," said the editor, who had noted the dry, burning palm, and
saw the glazed, fiery eye of Tom, "my dear fellow, you ought to
be in bed yourself. It's no use taking on about the poor little
kid: _you_ couldn't help it. Go home to your wife, and tell
her she's got you to nurse; and, if she's in any fix, tell her to
come to me."
Tom went home, but did not give his wife the message. She lay all
but insensible, never asked for anything, or refused anything
that was offered her, never said a word about her baby, or about
Tom, or seemed to be more than when she lay in her mother's lap.
Her baby was buried, and she knew nothing of it. Not until nine
days were over did she begin to revive.
For the first few days, Tom, moved with undefined remorse, tried
to take a part in nursing her. She took things from him, as she
did from the landlady, without heed or recognition. Just once,
opening suddenly her eyes wide upon him, she uttered a feeble
wail of "_Baby!_" and, turning her head, did not look at him
again. Then, first, Tom's conscience gave him a sharp sting.
He was far from well. The careless and in many respects dissolute
life he had been leading had more than begun to tell on a
constitution by no means strong, but he had never become aware of
his weakness nor had ever felt really ill until now.
But that sting, although the first sharp one, was not his first
warning of a waking conscience.
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