It seemed to Corydon at last as though she had always lain like this, and as though she must for endless time. She found herself getting used to it even; her muscles relaxed. There came to her a sense of the ludicrous side of it. “He means to conquer me!” she thought. “Can I hold out? If I only had something to think about, then I’d be a match for him.” And suddenly the inspiration came to her. “I’ll write a poem!”
What should it be about? The rain had been increasing in violence, and she became conscious of the steady downpour; it fascinated her, and she concentrated her attention upon it, and began—-
“I am the rain, that comes in spring!”
So, after a while, she found herself in the throes of composition; she was eager,excited—and marvel of marvels, utterly forgetful of the baby! She h
