Anne was admitted with others to the corridor, and left while they
turned to the places they sought.

"She might see the Matron," said the porter, going along with a clatter
of his feet to the far end of the corridor and knocking at a door. The
Matron almost immediately emerged carrying a large key.

"It was very sad, wasn't it?" she began at once. "It happened night
before last. It's a fine boy, though it's a bit too soon. One of the
young women's got him." She led the way to the wide front stairs and
began to ascend. Stopping at a half-open door, she entered and Anne
followed.

It was a smaller room than the big ward, and sunny. It had an air of
privacy, of comfort given by the sunshine only, for it was uncarpeted,
and bare like the others. Four young women were sewing the stiff linsey
skirts worn in the Union.

"How's the baby?" said the Matron.

"Asleep," replied a good-looking, blond young woman, rising willingly
from her work and going over to the window, beneath which was a
wicker-cradle covered with a shawl. She drew back the shawl, and Anne
saw lying on one cheek on the pillow, the tiny, fuzzy, misshapen head
and creased purple fist of a new baby. The confidence of that tiny
breathing creature lying asleep seemed strange to Anne, who knew how
desolate it was. It had already, as it were, taken possession of its
place in the world, and had no intention of being dislodged.

"He's a healthy little thing," said the Matron.