Then—darkness.
It is night in a long white-draped room.
One end of it is lighted by a lamp having a rose-colored shade.
In the middle of the lighted end stands a crib. A little white-robed form lies within.
The pink light so simulates a glow of health that the mother, sitting beside the crib, bends low, thinking the little breast heaves.
But no. The waxen cheeks chill her lips.
Still she bends and gazes on that loved little form.
Bruno lies at the mother's feet. When she moves he rises, looking mournfully into the crib, then turns to rest his head on her knee.
On a lounge, in the end of the room where shadows lurk, the father lies asleep, exhausted with grief.
The curtains sway in the open windows, as if the room were breathing. All else is still.