The three men slipped through the door; those above came down; a doctor bustled in, satchel in hand, and after him several women; Janey was carried up; the shop was empty, except for Mr. Barria sitting by his lamp and muttering softly.
“She could not find it, the peace that is about, and her little happiness it would not stay beside her.”
Presently the doctor spoke over him.
“I think Mrs. Durdo should be taken to the hospital. St. James, you know. It's not far.”
“You think—”
“She is approaching confinement, and the shock, you know.”
“Whatever iss desirable, Herr Doctor. There iss no need, sir, of the economy in respect to—to whatever iss desirable.”
“Quite right, Mr. Barria. Quite right.”
This was in June. Late in the fall Janey came back from St. James's Hospital, pale, drooping, and alone.
She sat in a black dress by the front window and kept the accounts as before, gazed through the dim panes at Cripple Street, which was made by nature to be dull, but read the Annuals no more, which was perhaps a pity.