The motor-horns even had a muffled sound,
and heavy drays and wagons used the wide streets; there were fewer
taxicabs about, or else they flew by noiselessly. Yet no straw was
down; the expense prohibited that. And towards morning, very early, the
mother decided to watch alone. She had been a trained nurse before her
marriage, accustomed when she was younger to long vigils. "You go down,
dear, and get a little sleep," she urged in a whisper. "He's quiet now. At five o'clock I'll come for you to take my place." "You'll fetch me at once," he whispered, "if----" then hesitated as
though breath failed him. A moment he stood there staring from her
face to the bed. "If you hear anything," he finished. She nodded, and
he went downstairs to his study, not to his bedroom. He left the door
ajar. He sat in darkness, listening. Mother, he knew, was listening,
too, beside the bed. His heart was very full, for he did not believe
the boy could live till morning. The picture of the room was all the
time before his eyes--the shaded lamp, the table with the medicines,
the little wasted figure beneath the blankets, and mother close beside
it, listening. He sat alert, ready to fly upstairs at the smallest cry. But no sound broke the stillness; the entire neighbourhood was silent;
all London slept. He heard the clock strike three in the dining-room at
the end of the corridor. It was still enough for that. There was not
even the heavy rumble of a single produce wagon, though usually they
passed about this time on their way to Smithfield and Covent Garden
markets. He waited, far too anxious to close his eyes.... At four
o'clock he would go up and relieve her vigil. Four, he knew, was the
time when life sinks to its lowest ebb.... Then, in the middle of his
reflections, thought stopped dead, and it seemed his heart stopped too. Far away, but coming nearer with extraordinary rapidity, a sharp,
clear sound broke out of the surrounding stillness--a horse's hoofs. At first it was so distant that it might have been almost on the high
roads of the country, but the amazing speed with which it came closer,
and the sudden increase of the beating sound, was such, that by the
time he turned his head it seemed to have entered the street outside. It was within a hundred yards of the building. The next second it was
before the very door. And something in him blenched. He knew a moment's
complete paralysis. The abrupt cessation of the heavy clatter was
strangest of all. It came like lightning, it struck, it paused. It did
not go away again. Yet the sound of it was still beating in his ears
as he dashed upstairs three steps at a time. It seemed in the house as
well, on the stairs behind him, in the little passage-way, _inside the
very bedroom_. It was an appalling sound. Yet he entered a room that
was quiet, orderly, and calm. It was silent. Beside the bed his wife
sat, holding Jack's hand and stroking it. She was soothing him; her
face was very peaceful. No sound but her gentle whisper was audible. He controlled himself by a tremendous effort, but his face betrayed
his consternation and distress. "Hush," she said beneath her breath;
"he's sleeping much more calmly now. The crisis, bless God, is over, I
do believe. I dared not leave him." He saw in a moment that she was right, and an untenable relief passed
over him. He sat down beside her, very cold, yet perspiring with heat. "You heard----?" he asked after a pause. "Nothing," she replied quickly, "except his pitiful, wild words when
the delirium was on him. It's passed. It lasted but a moment, or I'd
have called you." He stared closely into her tired eyes. "And his words?" he asked in a
whisper. Whereupon she told him quietly that the little chap had sat up
with wide-opened eyes and talked excitedly about a "great, great horse"
he heard, but that was not "coming for him." "He laughed and said he
would not go with it because he 'was not ready yet.' Some scrap of talk
he had overheard from us," she added, "when we discussed the traffic
once...."

"But you heard nothing?" he repeated almost impatiently. No, she had heard nothing. After all, then, he _had_ dozed a moment in
his chair....

Four weeks later Jack, entirely convalescent, was playing a restricted
game of hide-and-seek with his sister in the flat. It was really a
forbidden joy, owing to noise and risk of breakages, but he had unusual
privileges after his grave illness. It was dusk. The lamps in the
street were being lit. "Quietly, remember; your mother's resting in her
room," were the father's orders. She had just returned from a week by
the sea, recuperating from the strain of nursing for so many nights. The traffic rolled and boomed along the streets below. "Jack! Do come on and hide. It's your turn. I hid last." But the boy was standing spellbound by the window, staring hard at
something on the pavement. Sybil called and tugged in vain. Tears
threatened. Jack would not budge. He declared he saw something. "Oh, you're always seeing something. I wish you'd go and hide. It's
only because you can't think of a good place, really." "Look!" he cried in a voice of wonder. And as he said it his father
rose quickly from his chair before the fire. "Look!" the child repeated with delight and excitement. "It's a great
big horse. And it's perfectly white all over." His sister joined him at
the window. "Where? Where? I can't see it. Oh, _do_ show me!" Their father was standing close behind them now. "I heard it," he was
whispering, but so low the children did not notice him. His face was
the colour of chalk. "Straight in front of our door, stupid! Can't you see it? Oh, I do wish
it had come for me. It's _such_ a beauty!" And he clapped his hands
with pleasure and excitement. "Quick, quick! It's going away again!" But while the children stood half-squabbling by the window, their
father leaned over a sofa in the adjoining room above a figure whose
heart in sleep had quietly stopped its beating. The great white horse
had come. But this time he had not only heard its wonderful arrival. He
had also heard it go. It seemed he heard the awful hoofs beat down the
sky, far, far away, and very swiftly, dying into silence, finally up
among the stars. THE END. Transcriber's Note

Spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been retained as in the
original publication except as follows:

  Page 1
  in the familar scenery _changed to_
  in the familiar scenery

  Page 137
  that the search partly had gone _changed to_
  that the search party had gone

  Page 183
  which disintegrate the herioc soul _changed to_
  which disintegrate the heroic soul

  Page 185
  where they had their birth: _changed to_
  where they had their birth. Page 204
  this Tessaract was bounded _changed to_
  this tessaract was bounded