The doctor looked steadfastly at me again (I was biting my lip to keep it firm), and said:
"She may."
When I returned to the kitchen I knew that I was face to face with another of the great mysteries of a woman's life—Death—the death of my child, which my very love and tenderness had exposed her to.
Meantime Mrs. Oliver, who was as white as a whitewashed wall, was excusing herself in a whining voice that had the sound of a spent wave. She wouldn't have hurt the pore dear precious for worlds, and if it hadn't been for Ted, who was so tired at night and wanted sleep after walking in percession. . . .
Partly to get rid of the woman I sent her out (with almost the last of my money) for some of the things ordered by the doctor. While she was away, and I was looking down at the little silent face on my lap, praying for one more glimpse of my Martin's sea-blue eyes, the bricklayer came lunging into the house.
"Where's Lizer?" he said.
I told him and he cried:
"The baiby again! Allus the baiby!"
With that he took out of his pocket a cake of moist tobacco, cut and rolled some of it in his palm, and then charged his pipe and lit it—filling the air with clouds of rank smoke, which made baby bark and cough without rousing her.
I pointed this out to him and asked him not to smoke.