In Room 5 Mrs. John Pelton lay staring at the wall, with quiet face.
From a clock-tower came the sound of the striking of the hour. She
counted the strokes--nine o'clock. She wished it were ten and Dr. Carmon
had come.... After he came and things began--the operation was only
"things," even in the background of her mind--after Dr. Carmon got there
and things began, it would not be so hard, she thought. It was the
waiting part that was hard.
She had had a restless night. There had seemed so many hours; and she
had thought of things that she ought to have done before she left
home.... She had forgotten to tell any one about Tommie's milk. He
always got upset so easy! She wondered if Mrs. Colby would know. It had
been good in Mrs. Colby to say she would come in and look after the
children a little. But Mamie was really old enough to cook for them....
And she did hope John would be all right--and not worry about her....
He would be at work at ten--when "things" were going on. That was
good!... Mrs. John Pelton knew that it was work that would carry John
over the hard place--work that would take every nerve and thought for
itself. John was a puddler and they were to "run" at ten o'clock--or
about ten. He would have his hands full--enough to think about and not
worry--till things were over.... He would come, after work hours, to see
how she had got through.
Then she had fallen asleep and dreamed she was slipping down a steep
place--down, down, and couldn't stop--and some one had caught her
arm.... And it was the nurse, waking her gently for something. And then
she had dozed a little and wakened and wondered about the children
again....
And no one had brought her any breakfast--not even a cup of coffee.
"Nothing to eat this morning," the nurse had said, smiling, when she had
plucked up courage to ask for something. The nurse was a nice girl--a
good girl, Mrs. Pelton thought--but hardly older than Mamie, it seemed.
That older woman was so good yesterday! Aunt Jane's look and cap came
floating hazily to her; and she slipped a hand under her cheek and fell
asleep, thinking of it.
The thin face on the pillow, with the hair drawn tightly back and
braided in its two small braids, had somehow a heroic look. There were
lines of suffering on the forehead, but the mouth had a touch of
something like courage, even in its sleep--as if it would smile, when
the next hard thing was over.
Aunt Jane, who had come in silently and stood looking down at it, called
it "the woman look."
"They always have it," she sometimes said--"the real ones have it--kind
of as if they _knew_ things would come better--if just they could hold
on--not give up, or make a fuss or anything--just hold on!"
The woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "I didn't know as you came
to see us--in the rooms," she said.