"Mummy—is daddy dead?"
Anne folded her in her arms.
"No, my pet, no."
"He is, mummy, I know he is. Daddy! Daddy!"
If Majendie had been in the house she would have carried the child into his room, and shown him to her, and relieved her of her terror. She had done that once before when she had cried for him.
But now Peggy cried persistently, vehemently; not loud, but in an agony that tore and tortured her as she had seen her mother torn and tortured. She cried till she was sick; and still her sobs shook her, with a sharp mechanical jerk that would not cease.
Gradually she grew drowsy and fell asleep.
All night Anne lay awake beside her, driven to the edge of the bed, that she might give breathing space to the little body that pushed, closer and closer, to the warm place she made.
Towards dawn Peggy sighed three times, and stretched her limbs, as if awakening out of her sleep.
Then Anne turned, and laid her hands on the dead body of her child.