She dabbed at her eyes, inflamed already by much weeping, and withdrew. Quinney went to the foot of the stairs, listening. The suspense became excruciating, harder to endure than the anguished moaning of his wife. He never knew afterwards how long he remained there, but presently the door opened and the measured tread of both doctors was heard on the landing. They came slowly downstairs till they perceived Quinney. Dr. Ransome spoke, and his voice seemed to come from an immense distance: "It’s all over! Your child is born." "Thank God!" exclaimed Quinney. He added tremulously: "And my poor wife?" "She is very much exhausted. Presently you can go to her for a minute. It has been a complicated case, but we anticipate no further complications." Quinney burst into tears. Both doctors consoled him, taking him by the arm, patting his shoulder, telling him that he was the father of a robust infant, that there was no cause whatever for unreasonable anxiety. Not till they were on the point of leaving the cottage did the distracted father remember the decanter of port. "Come in here, gentlemen, please." They followed him into the dining-room, and three glasses were duly charged. "My son!" said Quinney, holding up his glass. Dr. Ransome stared at him, then he smiled. "Don’t you know? Didn’t we tell you?" "Tell me what?" "You are the father, my dear sir, of a ten-pound daughter!" *CHAPTER VII* *JOSEPHINA* *I* He stole up to his wife’s room as soon as the doctors had gone. The pale silvery light of early dawn seemed to steal up with him, making the silence more impressive and mysterious. Upon a table on the landing the lamp burned low. He had been told to expect the weak wail of the newly-born. The nurse, indeed, as they walked together from her cottage, had spoken of it as the most wonderful sound in all the world when heard by a father for the first time. But he had not heard it. He turned out the lamp, and noticed that his hand was trembling. Exercising his will, which he knew to be strong, he endeavoured to stop this strange twitching. He could not do so. Suddenly, he became conscious of an immense weariness; hie limbs ached; his head was throbbing; he felt like an overtired child. It even occurred to him that it would be not altogether unpleasant to cry himself to sleep. An odd fear of seeing Susan gripped him. What did she look like after the rigours of this awful night? Was she lying insensible? Would she know him? Would he break down before her, when he beheld the cruel ravages of intense pain? For her sake he must pull himself together.