"Mine's Mary,—you know,—Mary Jewett. Mary,—Mary, quite contrary. O,—there's Gwen!"
A little moaning came from the bedroom, and Mary went quickly and softly into the other woman, a tenderness in her eyes, leaving Kit looking very grave. He heard the two girls' voices, the one soothing, the other the voice of a woman in pain. He glanced over his shoulder. A hand closed the door, and more than a minute passed before it was reopened. The moanings grew louder.
"I think she wants you, Dr. Sorrell."
"Coming," said Kit.
The baby was born about eight o'clock, a boy. It lay whimpering and kicking on an old jacket at the foot of the bed, and when Kit had a moment to spare he carried the child to the bedroom door.
"Mary."
She was there, looking very tired and sleepy, with shadows under her eyes.
"What do I do with it?"
"Wash it. I suppose you have some clothes."
"O,—yes."
"And I want a big jug of hot water."
She took the baby and Kit's brusqueness into her arms, seeming to understand the man if she failed in her instincts towards the child. Sorrell was tired. There had been more in the experience of the night than the bringing of a child into the world, and he wanted fresh air, a bath, and his breakfast. He had been close up against life, contending with it in himself as well as in the woman.
"Try to get some sleep. Yes, everything is quite all right."
"You've been so kind, doctor."
He carried the bag and his coat into the kitchen where Mary was sitting by the stove with the baby on her knees. She had washed and dressed it, and was looking at its red and ugly face with an air of puzzlement and of hostility.
Kit put on his coat.
"I suppose you will be here."
