"Mrs. Nightman, Mrs. Nightman!" she shrieked, and stumbled in agony of body and horror of mind back to the flickering bedroom, back to the bed.
And then there was light and a murmur of voices, saying: "We have come to see how you are feeling, Florence," and sitting by her bed she recognized the three aunts from Clapton, in their bugles and cameos and glittering bonnets.
There was a man, too, whom she had only just time to realize was the doctor, not the undertaker, before she was aware that the final effort of her tortured body was being made without assistance from her own will or courage.
She waved away the sympathizers. She was glad to see the doctor and Mrs. Nightman herding them from the room, like gaunt, black sheep; but they came back again as inquisitive animals will when, after what seemed a thousand thousand years of pain, she could hear something crying and the trickle of water and the singing of a kettle.
Perhaps it was Aunt Fanny who said: "It's a dear little girl."
The doctor nodded, and Mrs. Raeburn stirred, and with wide eyes gazed at her baby.
"It is Jenny, after all," she murmured; then wished for the warmth of a new-born child against her breast.
Chapter II: Fairies at the Christening
A fortnight after the birth of Jenny, her three great-aunts, black and stately as ever, paid a second visit to the mother.
"And how is Florrie?" inquired Aunt Alice.