at never again would she endure this agony,
if but this once she were able to survive it. She vowed, tearing in
savage emphasis the patchwork counterpane, that nothing should induce
her to suffer like this a second time.

The afternoon faded tranquilly into dusk. No wind agitated a single
dewy petal, and only the blackbirds with intermittent alarums broke the
silence. The ripe round moon of harvest, floating mild and yellow and
faintly luminous along the sky, was not yet above the hills. Mrs.
Trewhella was not yet willing to despatch a summons to the doctor. Two
more hours sank away. Out in the fields, marching full in the moon's
face, the reapers went slowly homewards. Out in the fields they sang old
songs of the earth and the grain; out in the waste the fox pricked his
ears and the badger turned to listen. Down in the reeds the
sedge-warbler lisped through the low ground vapors his little melody.
The voices of the harvesters died away in purple glooms, and now, as if
in a shell, the sea was heard lapping the sand. Through the open lattice
rose the scent of the tobacco plants. There was a murmur of voices in
consultation. Jenny heard a shout for Thomas, and presently horses'
hoofs trotting down the farm road.

High and small and silver was the moon before she heard them coming
back. The dewdrops were all diamonds, the wreathed vapors were
damascened by moonlight, before she heard the grate of wheels and the
click of the gate and another murmur of voices. Then the room was filled
with black figures; entering lamplight seemed to magnify her pain, and
Jenny knew little more until, recovering from chloroform, she perceived
a candle, large as a column, burning with giant spearhead of flame and,
beyond the blue and silver lattice, apprehended a fuss of movement.

"What is it?" she asked in momentary perplexity.

"'Tis a boy," said Mrs. Trewhella. "A grand lill chap."

"What's all that noise?" she murmured petulantly.

"'Tis me, my dear soul," said Mrs. Trewhella, "putting all straight as
we belong."

May leaned over her sister, squeezing her hand.

"I think I shall like having a baby," said Jenny, "when we can take him
out for walks. You know, just you and me, young May."

Chapter XLI: _Columbine Happy_

Jenny was ivory now: the baby had stolen all the coral from her cheeks.
Outside, the treetops shook tremulous black lace across the silver deeps
of the sky and jigged with ebony boughs upon the circle of t