At her full height Cecily looked down on Della in disgust. The things she was instinctively fighting against, for which she had endured so much, all seemed epitomized in this hysteric figure of inconsequence which was so helpless up against a fact of life--a fact demanding personal sacrifice. “Incapable,” she thought, feeling strong as never before. And then there came through her scorn that pride again that Della had come to her, and a real anxiety for Della and the child which might be hers. “If this is true,” she said, “you know you ought not to be letting yourself get wrought up. It’s bad for you and bad for the baby,” she finished tactlessly. A shiver went over the crouching girl. “Don’t! Don’t!” she moaned. “I won’t have it, I tell you. I wish I’d never seen Walter. He’s let me in for this now, just as he let me in for marrying him after that mess at college. I wish I never had married him in spite of all their silly talk. Anybody could have known I wasn’t a tough girl. I didn’t stay out all night because I wanted to. I couldn’t help it if the silly car froze up and we had to go to the nearest place to keep from freezing ourselves. But he was so fussy that he got me all worked up, too, and I married him. And now, after all I’ve done for him, he was so cruel to-night. He didn’t care about my feelings. He just wanted the horrible----” “Hush, Della.” “I thought you’d help me. You’ve been married a long while. You----” “Della, if you mean what I suppose you mean by ‘helping’ you, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how to help you in that way. And of course I wouldn’t anyway. It’s not only wicked to consider such a thing; it’s the worst kind of wickedness. It’s dreadful, awful, criminal.” Her words seemed to dry Della’s tears. She got up, wrapping her coat around her. “Well, I can kill myself,” she said, her blurred blue eyes full of childish drama. There was something in this pure childishness that went home to Cecily’s heart. There were only three or four years between her age and Della’s, but she felt decades older and wiser. It came to her suddenly that this was no figure of evil before her. It was just a frightened little girl, uttering angry threats in the face of her fear--ignorant of all things that might stand her in stead in a crisis, equipped only to meet gayety and enjoyment. Cecily had the heavier equipment and she longed to lend it, to bolster up this frail little soul. She took her by both shoulders. “You won’t do any such ridiculous thing. Sit down and let me tell you a few things. Let me tell you,” she went on to Della, reluctant beside her, “what a joy it is, what wonderful happiness it really is, in spite of all the pain and trouble, to have a baby of your own, something living that you really created and made strong. Why, it’s most beautiful.” But Della’s face was hard and drawn and sullen. “That’s if you like that sort of thing. I don’t, that’s all. I’m not the type,” she repeated.