Long she had
wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves,
and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thing
clear--to understand.
"Was the child born dead?"
"Worse than dead!"
Then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than death? She
had tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed her like a child
each day and left her lying there. Today she was stronger, and for the
first time sitting up, looking listlessly out across the world--a queer
world. Why had they not let her see the child--just one look at its
little dead face? That would have been something. And again, as the
doctor cheerily turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. He
looked at her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly:
"There, now; you've been dreaming. You must rest quietly now." And with
a nod he passed into the other room to talk with her husband.
She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell Harry
to ask him--she did not often see her husband, but she must ask him now
and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. A
moment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. From the
other side the words came distinctly and clearly:
"--other children, doctor?"
"You must have no other children, Mr. Cresswell.
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