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And
scatter
flowers
on
tbe
dust
I
love
.
He
paused
.
He
felt
the
rhythm
of
the
verse
about
him
in
the
room
.
How
melancholy
it
was
!
Could
he
,
too
,
write
like
that
,
express
the
melancholy
of
his
soul
in
verse
?
There
were
so
many
things
he
wanted
to
describe
:
his
sensation
of
a
few
hours
before
on
Grattan
Bridge
,
for
example
.
If
he
could
get
back
again
into
that
mood
...
.
The
child
awoke
and
began
to
cry
.
He
turned
from
the
page
and
tried
to
hush
it
:
but
it
would
not
be
hushed
.
He
began
to
rock
it
to
and
fro
in
his
arms
but
its
wailing
cry
grew
keener
.
He
rocked
it
faster
while
his
eyes
began
to
read
the
second
stanza
:
Within
this
narrow
cell
reclines
her
clay
,
That
clay
where
once
...
It
was
useless
.
He
could
n't
read
.
He
could
n't
do
anything
.
The
wailing
of
the
child
pierced
the
drum
of
his
ear
.
It
was
useless
,
useless
!
He
was
a
prisoner
for
life
.
His
arms
trembled
with
anger
and
suddenly
bending
to
the
child
's
face
he
shouted
:
"
Stop
!
"
The
child
stopped
for
an
instant
,
had
a
spasm
of
fright
and
began
to
scream
.
He
jumped
up
from
his
chair
and
walked
hastily
up
and
down
the
room
with
the
child
in
his
arms
.
It
began
to
sob
piteously
,
losing
its
breath
for
four
or
five
seconds
,
and
then
bursting
out
anew
.
The
thin
walls
of
the
room
echoed
the
sound
.
He
tried
to
soothe
it
but
it
sobbed
more
convulsively
.
He
looked
at
the
contracted
and
quivering
face
of
the
child
and
began
to
be
alarmed
He
counted
seven
sobs
without
a
break
between
them
and
caught
the
child
to
his
breast
in
fright
.
If
it
died
!
...
The
door
was
burst
open
and
a
young
woman
ran
in
,
panting
.
