The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even for one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks to dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and brain had given way.
For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with delirium—struggled and overcame.
“Where is my baby?”
The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby.
A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and crossed to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature, with small, clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. She bent over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful eyes.
“Where is my baby, mother?” Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly on Edith's lips.
“You must be very quiet,” she said, in a low, even voice. “The doctor forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill.”
“Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby.”
“Not now. The doctor—”
Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her face.