"Look here!" he said, "it's no good crying over spilt milk. What you've
got to do is to set to and get some work."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't say it in that sort of way," said Martin; "you must rise to the
occasion."
"Yes, sir."
"You want a tonic. Take this half-crown, and get in a dozen pints of
stout, and drink one every day."
And again Mrs. Hughs said, "Yes, sir."
"And about that baby."
Motionless, where it had been placed against the footrail of the bed,
the baby sat with its black eyes closed. The small grey face was curled
down on the bundle of its garments.
"It's a silent gentleman," Martin muttered.
"It never was a one to cry," said Mrs. Hughs.
"That's lucky, anyway. When did you feed it last?"
Mrs. Hughs did not reply at first. "About half-past six last evening,
sir."
"What?"
"It slept all night; but to-day, of course, I've been all torn to
pieces; my milk's gone. I've tried it with the bottle, but it wouldn't
take it."
Martin bent down to the baby's face, and put his finger on its chin;
bending lower yet, he raised the eyelid of the tiny eye....
"It's dead," he said.
At the word "dead" Mrs. Hughs, stooping behind him, snatched the baby
to her throat. With its drooping head close to her she, she clutched and
rocked it without sound. Full five minutes this desperate mute struggle
with eternal silence lasted--the feeling, and warming, and breathing on
the little limbs.
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