The two women looked at the baby, and agreed that it was a fine specimen. Mrs. Yellam said impressively:
"Pore dear soul! She thinks it a He. Maybe 'twill be best not to undeceive her."
"She'll find out, Mrs. Yellam."
"Ah-h-h! A crool shock. I allows that it be my duty to prepare her."
"She's low," said the nurse, in a professional tone. Mrs. Yellam knew that the doctor, before leaving, had given the nurse instructions. The nurse, however, made light of apprehension, saying incisively:
"We'll pull her through, Mrs. Yellam. Nothing needed but constant care for the first few days. Doctors always scare the gizzards out of us because they think that we won't be careful unless they do."
This was comforting. After more talk, Mrs. Yellam prevailed upon the nurse to lie down. She proposed to sit by Fancy. The baby could be trusted to be quiet, being a She, and, seemingly, blessed with a pleasant temper.
Fancy still slept.
Mrs. Yellam took the chair by the bedside. If nothing but care and vigilance were needed, they should be forthcoming. She vowed to herself that she would fight, tooth and nail, for this life, neglect no precaution, run no risk. Physically, she braced herself for the combat. Long ago, she had fought for the life of a child—and won! Doctor and mother had despaired. It was a case of pneumonia. Hour after hour Mrs. Yellam had applied hot cloths to the child's breast. And she had willed fiercely that the child should live. Her strong will had saved it. Everybody admitted that, even the doctor.
Fancy slept for some hours. She awoke refreshed, free from pain, but pitifully feeble. After obediently swallowing some food, she asked to see the "boy."