“You don’t die. You have so much anesthetic you don’t know anything about it. Then you have a cunning little baby and you can have the loveliest baby things. Of course Walter wouldn’t want you to have any of the hard care of it.” Skillful Cecily, sliding over all the things that had made her children real to her; nights of watching and caring when a baby had a cough or a touch of croup, the routine of nursing, the fatigue and ill health which might be eased, but which could never be destroyed. She was fighting for Della’s baby now, and if Della saw it as a pink and white doll in a dotted Swiss cloud, with herself as an invalid in interesting negligees, still she was gaining her end. That it was a great step for Cecily--this relinquishing of her own fastidiousness in discussion, this generosity of method--she did not realize, yet. Della was growing calmer. Her hysteria had half spent itself and Cecily had turned her mind away from horrors for the moment, anyway. It was probably the first time for many days that she had been able to see anything except blackness, and the relief showed in the relaxation of her body. Cecily ventured a little further. She was feeling a sudden warmth of affection for Della. The sense of her usefulness to some one outside her own group of children and the feeling that some one had turned to her for confidence and compassion was expanding all her starved emotions. She put her arm around Della. “Poor little Della.” “Isn’t life terrible?” asked Delia mournfully. “You want to stop worrying about everything,” answered Cecily. “You want to just lie back and let us take care of you. We’ll all see you through it and make it just as easy. Just let me talk to Walter and explain things and he won’t upset you again.” “He was so cruel.” Della relapsed again. “I didn’t tell you everything. He said I was a coward and----” “He was excited. You’d better spend the night here now, Della. I’m going to tuck you up and telephone to Walter where you are.” “Do you think he’ll come over?” “Of course--to make sure you are all right.” She got Della into bed finally, diverting her momentarily by pressing upon her her most elaborate nightgown and negligee. Della cast a fleeting, discouraged glance at herself in the glass and slid between the covers, too worn out to resist longer. “Of course I shan’t be able to sleep,” she said, “so if Walter comes over, he might come up for just a moment.” Cecily nodded and turned the light low. Then, from the safe distance of the kitchen extension telephone, she telephoned Walter and half an hour later let him in. “You say she’s gone to bed?” “Quite worn out. But she wanted to see you.” “Is she still hysterical?” “No; she’s calmer.” Walter’s boyish face had grave lines of anxiety traced on it. He paced up and down the room for a minute, then turned to Cecily. “Tell you what was the matter with her?” “Yes.” He took a few more turns.