back upon the pillow.

"You have been very ill for nearly two months," she said, softening
her voice. "No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is
over, but not the danger."

"Two months! Oh, mother!"

The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and
the pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut
her eyes and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of
her face that thought was busy.

"Not two whole months, mother?" she said, at length, in doubtful
tones. "Oh no! it cannot be."

"It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you
value your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous."

But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no
lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her
baby and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of
mother-love, the pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had
begun to feel when she first called for the baby they had not
permitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now
flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, what of the baby?
To be submissive was impossible.

Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried,
piteously,