The young gardener has two warm rugs with him. The doctor looks at him inquiringly.
"You are her husband?"
"No."
The doctor frowns.
"You had best retire, then. Place those wraps here. Stay--you must do something. Go to my house as quickly as you can, and bring---- No, there might be some difficulty. I will write what I want."
With Nelly's head still lying on his knee, he takes from his pocket a book, writes instructions upon a leaf, tears it out and gives it to the gardener.
"Do not delay," he says. "You and my man must bring the couch and the blankets at once. There's not a moment to lose."
John darts away, and the doctor beckons the women to him, and whispers gravely to them.
Mr. Temple, in his retreat, clasps his hands, and listens. For what? He cannot hear a word that passes between the women and the doctor, and their forms shut Nelly from his sight. But presently a sound reaches his ears that makes him tremble. It is a baby's cry. Another soul is added to the world's many. In the stillness of the beautiful night, while the snow is falling upon the ancient church and on the tombs of the dead who worshipped there, a child is born, and the mother's sharpest physical agony is over.