It was Aniele’s kitchen, and huddled round the stove were half a dozen women, pale and frightened. One of them started to her feet as Jurgis entered; she was haggard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in bandages—he hardly realized that it was Marija. He looked first for Ona; then, not seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to speak. But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a second later came another piercing scream.
It was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis bounded to a door of the room and flung it open; there was a ladder leading through a trap door to the garret, and he was at the foot of it when suddenly he heard a voice behind him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized him by the sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, “No, no, Jurgis! Stop!”
“What do you mean?” he gasped.
“You mustn’t go up,” she cried.
Jurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright. “What’s the matter?” he shouted. “What is it?”
Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning above, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her reply. “No, no,” she rushed on. “Jurgis! You mustn’t go up! It’s—it’s the child!”
“The child?” he echoed in perplexity. “Antanas?”
Marija answered him, in a whisper: “The new one!”
And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. “The new one!” he gasped. “But it isn’t time,” he added, wildly.
Marija nodded. “I know,” she said; “but it’s come.”