Edward knelt down again by the bedside and took her hands. “Now, Bertha, you musn’t be alarmed, but the baby’s not well, and----“ “What d’you mean?” Bertha suddenly sprang up in the bed. “Lie down. Lie down,” cried Dr. Ramsay and the nurse, forcing her back on the pillow. “What’s the matter with him, doctor,” she cried, in sudden terror. “It’s as Edward says, he’s not well.” “Oh, he isn’t going to die--after all I’ve gone through.” She looked from one to the other. “Oh, tell me; don’t keep me in suspense. I can bear it, whatever it is.” Dr. Ramsay touched Edward, encouraging him. “You must prepare yourself for bad news, darling. You know----“ “He isn’t dead?” she shrieked. “I’m awfully sorry, dear.... He was still-born.” “Oh, God!” groaned Bertha, it was a cry of despair. And then she burst into passionate weeping. Her sobs were terrible, uncontrollable; it was her life that she was weeping away, her hope of happiness, all her desires and dreams. Her heart seemed breaking. She put her hands to her eyes, with a gesture of utter agony. “Then I went through it all for nothing.... Oh, Eddie, you don’t know the frightful pain of it--all night I thought I should die.... I would have given anything to be put out of my suffering. And it was all useless.” She sobbed still more irresistibly, quite crushed by the recollection of what she had gone through, and its futility. “Oh, I wish I could die.” The tears were in Edward’s eyes, and he kissed her hands. “Don’t give way, darling,” he said, searching in vain for words to console her. His voice faltered and broke. “Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you’re suffering just as much as I am. I forgot.... Let me see him now.” Dr. Ramsay made a sign to the nurse, and she fetched the dead child. She carried it to the bedside and showed it to Bertha. Bertha said nothing, and at last turned away; the nurse withdrew. Bertha’s tears now had ceased, but her mouth was set into a hopeless woe. “Oh, I loved him already so much.” Edward bent over. “Don’t grieve, darling.” She put her arms round his neck as she had delighted to do. “Oh, Eddie, love me with all your heart. I want your love so badly.” Chapter XVIII For days Bertha was overwhelmed with grief. She thought always of the dead child that had never lived, and her heart ached. But above all she was tormented by the idea that all her pain had been futile; she had gone through so much, her sleep still was full of the past agony, and it had been utterly, utterly useless. Her body was mutilated so that she wondered it was possible for her to recover; she had lost her old buoyancy, that vitality which had been so enjoyable, and she felt like an old woman. Her sense of weariness was unendurable--she was so tired that it seemed to her impossible to get rest. She lay in bed, day after day, in a posture of hopeless fatigue, on her back, with arms stretched out alongside of her, the pillows supporting her head: all her limbs were singularly powerless.