At eight o'clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or
two to be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly
anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to
wait.
At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself,
but he stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at
her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there
was an expression on her face such as he had never seen there.
'How is Willie?'
'Better, dear; much better.'
He still searched her face.
'Ought you to leave him?'
'Hush! You mustn't speak.'
Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that
the child was dead.
'The truth, Amy!'
She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her
wet cheek against his hand.
'I am come to nurse you, dear husband,' she said a moment after,
standing up again and kissing his forehead. 'I have only you
now.'
His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him
that he closed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness.
But those last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and
at length they brought a deep solace.
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