She looked up as her husband entered the room. He had combated by a
strong effort all outward manifestations of despair.
"Hubert," whispered the sweet, faint voice, "see, this is our little
daughter."
He bent down, but he could not see the child for the tears that filled
his eyes.
"Our little daughter," she repeated; "and they say, Hubert, that I have
given my life for hers. Is it true?"
He looked at the two doctors; he looked at the white face bearing the
solemn, serene impress of death. It would be cruel to deceive her now,
when the hands that caressed the little child were already growing
colder.
"Is it true, Hubert?" she repeated, a clear light shining in her dying
eyes.
"Yes, my darling, it is true," he said, in a low voice.
"I am dying--really dying--when I have my baby and you?" she questioned.
"Oh, Hubert, is it really true?"
Nothing but his sobs answered her; dying as she was, all sweet, womanly
compassion awoke in her heart.
"Hubert," she whispered--"oh, my darling, if you could come with me!--I
want to see you kiss the baby while it lies here in my arms."
He bent down and kissed the tiny face, she watching him all the time.
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