At the word “dead” Mrs. Hughs, stooping behind him, snatched the baby to her throat. With its drooping head close to her she, she clutched and rocked it without sound. Full five minutes this desperate mute struggle with eternal silence lasted—the feeling, and warming, and breathing on the little limbs. Then, sitting down, bent almost double over her baby, she moaned. That single sound was followed by utter silence. The tread of footsteps on the creaking stairs broke it. Martin, rising from his crouching posture by the bed, went towards the door.
His grandfather was standing there, with Thyme behind him.
“She has left her room,” said Mr. Stone. “Where has she gone?”
Martin, understanding that he meant the little model, put his finger to his lips, and, pointing to Mrs. Hughs, whispered:
“This woman's baby has just died.”
Mr. Stone's face underwent the queer discoloration which marked the sudden summoning of his far thoughts. He stepped past Martin, and went up to Mrs. Hughs.
He stood there a long time gazing at the baby, and at the dark head bending over it with such despair. At last he spoke:
“Poor woman! He is at peace.”
Mrs. Hughs looked up, and, seeing that old face, with its hollows and thin silver hair, she spoke:
“He's dead, sir.”