"It died," said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not
look at her child and utter this cruel falsehood.

"Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!"

A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes.

"I have said it, my child," was the almost stern response of Mrs.
Dinneford. "The baby is dead."

A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down
until her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her
head. Thus she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs.
Dinneford watched her without speaking.

"And what of George?" asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at
last.

Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted
herself erect.

"What of George?" she demanded.

"My poor child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine
pity, putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her
bosom. "It is more than you have strength to bear."

"You must tell me," the daughter said, disengaging herself. "I have
asked for my husband."