She found her sunk in a rocking-chair before the waning fire, softly swaying to and fro with the baby on her breast.  She looked at Muriel entering, with a set, still face.

“Has Blake gone?” she asked, still in that dry, powerless whisper.

Muriel moved to her side, and knelt down.  “He is just going,” she began to say, but the words froze on her lips.

She remained motionless for a long second, gazing at the tiny, waxen face on Daisy’s breast.  And for that second her heart stood still; for she knew that the baby was dead.

From the closed room across the passage came the muffled sound of the ayah’s wailing.  Daisy made a slight impatient movement.

“Stir the fire,” she whispered.  “He feels so cold.”

But Muriel did not move to obey.  Instead she held out her arms.

“Let me take him, dear,” she begged tremulously.  Daisy shook her head with a jealous tightening of her clasp.  “He has been so ill, poor wee darling,” she whispered.  “It came on so suddenly.  There was no time to do anything.  But he is easier now.  I think he is asleep.  We won’t disturb him.”

Muriel said no more.  She rose and blindly poked the fire.  Then—­for the sight of Daisy rocking her dead child with that set, ashen face was more than she could bear—­she turned and stole away, softly closing the door behind her.

Again meeting the English servants hovering outside, she sent them downstairs to light the kitchen fire, going herself to the dining-room window to watch for the doctor.  Her feet were bare and freezing, but she would not return to her room for slippers.  She felt she could not endure that awful wailing at close quarters again.  Even as it was, she heard it fitfully; but from the nursery there came no sound.

She wondered if Blake had gone across the meadow to the doctor’s house—­it was undoubtedly the shortest cut—­and tried to calculate how long it would take him.

The waiting was intolerable.  She bore it with a desperate endurance.  She could not rid herself of the feeling that somehow Nick was near her.  She almost expected to see him come lightly in and stand beside her.  Once or twice she turned shivering to assure herself that she was really alone.

There came at last the click of the garden-gate.  They had come across the drenched meadows.  In a transient gleam of moonlight she saw the two figures striding towards her.  Grange stopped a moment to fasten the gate.  The doctor came straight on.

She ran to the front door and threw it open.  The wind blew swirling all about her, but she never felt it, though her very lips were numb and cold.

“It’s too late!” she gasped, as he entered.  “It’s too late!”

Jim Ratcliffe took her by the shoulders and forced her away from the open door.

“Go and put something on,” he ordered, “instantly!”

There was no resisting the mastery of his tone.  She responded to it instinctively, hardly knowing what she did.