“Died, died!” echoed Margaret in a bewildered voice, “Doctor Phillips! who is it that has died?”
“The baby, Ma’am, the dear baby! She went off like a lamb, without a struggle! O! dear mistress, do try to bear it!”
“Is my baby—dead?” said Margaret in the same dazed voice, turning to the doctor who had already satisfied himself that the tiny heart and pulse had ceased to beat.
“No! my dear child, she is not dead—she is living—with God! Try to think of her as quite happy and free from this world’s ill.”
“O! but I wanted her so—I wanted her,” exclaimed the bereaved mother, as she clasped the senseless form in her arms, “O! baby! baby! why did you go, before you had seen your father?”
And then she slid, rather than sank, from the bedside, in a tumbled heap upon the floor.
“It is better so—it will help her through it,” said Doctor Phillips, as he directed the nurse to carry the dead child into Elinor Leyton’s room, and placed Margaret on her own bed. “You will not object, Miss Leyton, I am sure, and you must not leave Mrs. Pullen to-night!”
“Of course I shall not,” replied Elinor; “I have been afraid for days past that this would happen, but poor Margaret would not take any hints.”
She spoke sympathetically, but there were no tears in her eyes, and she did not caress, nor attempt to console her friend. She did all that was required of her, but there was no spontaneous suggestion on her part, with regard either to the mother, or the dead child, and as Doctor Phillips noted her coolness, he did not wonder so much at Ralph’s being attracted by the fervour and warmth of Harriet Brandt.
As soon as poor Margaret had revived and had her cry out, he administered a sleeping draught to her, and leaving her in charge of Elinor Leyton, he went downstairs again to consult Captain Pullen as to what would be the best thing for them to do.