“Where is my baby, mother?” Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager.
“Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure.
“Forgotten what?”
“You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you could live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby—”
“What of the baby, mother?” asked Edith, beginning to tremble violently. Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word that was on her lips.
“What of the baby, mother?” Edith repeated the question.
“It died,” said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not look at her child and utter this cruel falsehood.
“Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!”
A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes.
“I have said it, my child,” was the almost stern response of Mrs. Dinneford. “The baby is dead.”