“She has recovered consciousness, sir,” she whispered.
The eyes of the sick woman followed the doctor as he approached, and her lips moved.
“My baby.”
“Fetch the child, nurse.”
“Doctor, I thought I was dead—am I dying?”
“No—not if you want to live. It rests with yourself.”
The sound of a cry—not feeble, but almost shrill, and that wonderful “mother-look” came into Lady Mildred’s eyes. The baby was placed by her side, and as it nestled to her breast, she sighed.
“I shall not die—with this——”
The words, little more than a whisper, could scarcely be heard. The nurse held her breath and bent down to her patient, while Sir Felix’s fingers rested on Lady Mildred’s pulse, and it was evident that he, too, was full of anxiety.
“My little baby.”