"Ye look kind o' faint. Can't I do something for ye? Got any
pain-killer? That's good, well rubbed in," volunteered the old woman.
"No, no, I--I'm all right now, it was just a sharp twinge, that's
all--you'll find the boiler in the shed; I don't need it." Her tone was
one of dismissal.
The old woman rose. "All right, I'll find it. Set still." As she went
out she grinned--a mocking, sly, aggravating grin. "It's all
right--nothin' to be ashamed of. I've had ten. I called _my_ first one
pleurisy. It didn't fool any one, though." She cackled and creaked with
laughter as she shut the door.
Blanche sat motionless, staring straight before her, while the fire died
out and the room grew cold.
Her terror and shame gave way at last, and she allowed herself to dream
of the mystical joy of maternity. She permitted herself to fancy the
life of a mother in a sheltered and prosperous home. She felt in
imagination the touch of little lips, the thrust of little hands, the
cling of little arms. "My baby should come into a lovely, sun-lit room.
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