And on one of these evenings, while the weather was still warm enough to sit looking out into the darkness through the opened windows, but when an autumn haze had begun to hang again about the night, Marie had something to tell her mother, which had blanched her cheek and moistened her eyes all day.
"Mother, I don't know what you'll think, but—I'm going to have another baby."
"Oh—my—dear!" said Mrs. Amber.
The two women gazed into each other's eyes, and while a half-pleased expression stole through the solicitude in Mrs. Amber's, Marie's were wide with fear.
"Are you sure, duck?" said the elder woman, her knitting dropped in her lap.
"Sure," Marie murmured hoarsely. "I've been afraid—and I waited before I told you. But I'm sure. It—it'll be next summer—in the hot weather, just when we'd have been going away to the sea. We shan't be able to afford to go to Littlehampton next year."
"An only child," said Mrs. Amber comfortingly, "is a mistake. It's almost cruel to have an only child. You'll be much better with two than one."
"How can you say so? All that to go through again—"
"Oh, duck, I know! But it won't be so bad next time; anyone'll tell you that. Ask your doctor."
"I shan't have the doctor till I'm obliged."