rious objects in the room, without dazzling the patient's eyes. Those
eyes were raised with strained appeal to the other girl's face, as if
mutely asking help.

Here was another woman, a woman who loved her, a woman who would never
have a child of her own. Would she understand? What words of comfort
would she offer in her turn?

But Vanna said no words. She laid her face down on Jean's hand, and the
hot tears poured from her eyes. The trembling of her form shook the
bed, and Jean trembled in response. A spasm of weakness threatened her,
but she would not succumb. She pressed her lips together, and stared
fixedly with burning eyes. Was this the "little cry" which was to act
as the prelude to the "nice cup of tea"? What comfort had Vanna to
offer?

"Well!" she said in that cold, faint voice which sounded so poor an echo
of her usual full, musical tones. "Well! what have you to say? I sent
for you, you know. My baby is dead. He is _dead_. I have no baby. It
has been all useless, for nothing! Nothing is left--"

"Jean! Jean! My poor little Jean!"

"Is that all you have to say? You ought to tell me to be brave, to be
brave and not fret. I am not the first person!... Can you believe it,
Vanna; _can_ you? That little chest of drawers is full of his things.
I've stitched at them for months, and dreamt of him with every stitch.
I've turned them over a hundred times, waiting, looking forward to
to-day. There's his cot in the corner, and his little bath. It's all
ready--but he is not here. My baby is dead. They took him away, and
hid him where I can never see. Think of it, Vanna! all those months,
and never even to see his face. To have had a little son, and never to
have touched him, given him one kiss--"

"Poor little mother! Poor little hungry mother. Oh, my poor Jean."

Jean shut her eyes, and pressed her head against the pillow.

"Vanna, Vanna! How shall I bear it? I was so happy, so content; I
wanted nothing but Robert, and then _this_ came. I had never been ill
before--it was dreadful to be ill, but I looked forward: you know how I
looked forward. I thought and thought; it seemed at last as if one
thought of nothing else. It grew so real, so near; it filled one's
heart, and then--_nothing_! nothing but pain and loss. You don't
understand; you can't guess the horror of it--the baffled, incredible
horror. You'll never know it, Vanna. Thank God for that! When you
grieve because y