As the grey dawn was breaking over the snow-whitened Hudson, the nurse
aroused the two who dozed in their chairs in the living-room.
“You’d better come,” she said excitedly. “Mrs. Winthrop isn’t going to
hold out.”
At the door the physician waved them back. Judith caught a glimpse of
Eileen’s deathlike face and she ran sobbing down the hall. A long time
she stood, her husband’s cherishing arms around her. Then a petulant
wail from the room at the end of the long hall told them it was over.
At noon a letter to David was posted.
“You must be prepared for the worst. Early this morning a little girl
came. It weighs less than four pounds. The doctor says, considering
its premature condition, the extreme youth of the mother, and the
circumstances of delivery, there is not one chance in ten that it
will survive. We are more concerned for the mother. I will telegraph
you, only in case of extremity.”
V
Laura Ramsay had come, in response to a long-distance call, and she and
Judith stood beside the nurse when, after twelve hours of earth-life,
the unformed morsel of humanity gave up the struggle.
It was not until the following morning that they told Eileen her baby
had died. Lary was with them. He had looked for a passionate outburst.
He could not fathom her mood as she lay, quite tranquil, on her pillow,
a smile gathering radiance in her deepset eyes.
“It’s the only way,” she said at length. “I’m glad it won’t have to
face life--with such a handicap. It’s better for all of us.”
Lary stooped and kissed her. He wondered why women were so much
stronger than men, why, in most of life’s crises, they must bear the
shock.