could do to make up to her father, whom already
once she had nearly killed by coming into life. And she began to
practise the bearing of the coming pain, trying to project herself into
this unknown suffering, so that it should not surprise from her cries and
contortions.

She had one dream, over and over again, of sinking and sinking into a
feather bed, growing hotter and more deeply walled in by that which had
no stay in it, yet through which her body could not fall and reach
anything more solid. Once, after this dream, she got up and spent the
rest of the night wrapped in a blanket and the eider-down, on the old
sofa, where, as a child, they had made her lie flat on her back from
twelve to one every day. Betty was aghast at finding her there asleep in
the morning. Gyp's face was so like the child-face she had seen lying
there in the old days, that she bundled out of the room and cried
bitterly into the cup of tea. It did her good. Going back with the tea,
she scolded her "pretty" for sleeping out there, with the fire out, too!

But Gyp only said:

"Betty, darling, the tea's awfully cold! Please get me some more!"

X

From the day of the nurse's arrival, Winton gave up hunting. He could
not bring himself to be out of doors for more than half an hour at a
time. Distrust of doctors did not prevent him having ten minutes every
morning with the old practitioner who had treated Gyp for mumps, measles,
and the other blessings of childhood. The old fellow--his name was
Rivershaw--was a most peculiar survival. He smelled of mackintosh, had
round purplish cheeks, a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and
bulging grey eyes slightly bloodshot. He was short in body and wind,
drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read The Times, spoke
always in a husky voice, and used a very small brougham with a very old
black horse. But he had a certain low cunning, which had defeated many
ailments, and his reputation for assisting people into the world stood
extremely high. Every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of his
little brougham's wheels would be heard. Winton would get up, and,
taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the dining-room, extract from a
sideboard a decanter of port, a biscuit-canister, and one glass. He
would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in due time, the
doctor would appear, and he could say:

"Well, doctor? How is she?"

"Nicely; quite nicely."

"Nothi