"It's coming. The miracle's beginning." What had she meant by that?
And then she knew. The urgency of a sudden terror gave her her voice.
"Roddy," she said. "There was going to be a--baby. Isn't there?"
Something queerly like a laugh broke his voice when he answered. "Oh,
you darling! Yes. It's all right. That isn't why I'm crying. It's just
because I'm so happy."
"But the baby!" she persisted. "Why isn't it here?"
Rodney turned and spoke to some one else. "She wants to see," he said.
"May she?"
And then a woman's voice (why, it was the nurse, of course! Miss Harris,
who had come last night) said in an indulgent soothing tone, "Why,
surely she may. Wait just a minute."
But the wait seemed hours. Why didn't they bring the baby--her baby?
There! Miss Harris was coming at last, with a queerly bulky, shapeless
bundle. Rodney stepped in between and cut off the view, but only to
slide an arm under mattress and pillow and raise her a little so that
she could see. And then, under her eyes, dark red and hairy against the
whiteness of the pillow, were two small heads--two small shapeless
masses leading away from them, twitching, squirming.
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