The air was fresh, scented with the spring flowers and the odour of the earth. Both men inspired it with relief after the close atmosphere of the sick-room. Dr. Ramsay put his arm in Edward’s.
“Cheer up, my boy,” he said. “You’ve borne it all magnificently. I’ve never seen a man go through a night like this better than you; and upon my word, you’re as fresh as paint this morning.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Edward. “What’s to be done about—about the baby?”
“I think she’ll be able to bear it better after she’s had a sleep. I really didn’t dare say it was still-born. The shock would have been too much for her.”
They went in and washed and ate, then waited for Bertha to wake. At last the nurse called them.
“You poor things,” cried Bertha, as they entered the room. “Have you had no sleep at all?... I feel quite well now, and I want my baby. Nurse says it’s sleeping and I can’t have it—but I will. I want it to sleep with me, I want to look at my son.”
Edward and the nurse looked at Dr. Ramsay, who for once was disconcerted.
“I don’t think you’d better have him to-day, Bertha,” he said. “It would upset you.”
“Oh, but I must have my baby. Nurse, bring him to me at once.”
Edward knelt down again by the bedside and took her hands. “Now, Bertha, you musn’t be alarmed, but the baby’s not well, and——“