y and Catty ran
hand-in-hand to fetch the doctor, their sobbing checked by a mastering
sense of their service and importance.

And the man, more helpless than any child, clung to the woman's hand and
waited with her for her hour.

As he waited he looked round the shabby room, and saw for the first time
how poor a place it was. Nothing seemed to have been provided for Aggie;
nothing ever was provided for her; she was always providing things for
other people. His eyes fastened on the Madonna di Gran Duca fading in her
frame. He remembered how he had bought it for Aggie seven years ago. Aggie
lay under the Madonna, with her eyes closed, making believe that she
slept. But he could see by the fluttering of her eyelids that her spirit
was awake and restless.

Presently she spoke.

"Arthur," she said, "I believe I'm going to have a nice quiet night, after
all. But when--when the time comes, you're not to worry, do you hear? Kate
and mother will come up and look after me. And you're to go away
to-morrow, just as if nothing had happened."

She paused.

"The flannels," she said, "shall be washed and sent after you. You're not
to worry."

She was providing still.

"Oh, Aggie--darling--don't."

"Why not? _You_ ought to go to bed, because you'll have to get up so early
to-morrow morning."

She closed her eyes, and he watched and waited through minutes that were
hours. It seemed to him that it was another man than he who waited and
watched. He was estranged from his former self, the virtuous, laborious
self that he had once known, moving in its dull and desolate routine.
Thoughts came to him, terrible, abominable thoughts that could never have
occurred to it.

[Illustration: "Thoughts came to him, terrible thoughts"]

"It would have been better," said this new self, "if I had been unfaithful
to her. _That_ wouldn't have killed her."

As if she had heard him through some spiritual sense, she pressed his hand
and answered him.

"Thank God," she whispered, hoarsely, "that you've always loved me."

She struggled with her voice for a moment; then it came, brave and clear.

"Listen, Arthur. I wrote to mother three weeks ago. About this. I've made
her think that it was I who wanted the children, always, from the very
first. She'll understand that I couldn't be happy without a baby in my
arms. It _is_ different. They're never quite the same after the first
year. Even Arty wasn't. Mother will understand. She won't be