“I’ll go up this afternoon,” returned Anne, picking up the whip and flicking the pony.  The farmer said “Good morning,” and the rattle of milk cans once more filled the road as his horse set off at a gallop towards home.

CHAPTER XVIII

When the business of the market was done, and Anne reached the Union, it was late in the afternoon.  The roads outside the town were full of farmers returning from the market, of women walking with empty baskets, and an occasional small herd of cattle, being driven away from the terrifying experience of the town, by a purchaser.  It was visiting-day at the Union, and here and there from the out-going stream, a man or woman of middle-age turned aside to enter the gate of the big brick building, in whose side-garden men were working, dressed in the bottle-green corduroy of the institution.

The presence of spring seemed to surge about the bare building.  The trees planted about it were old, and belonged to an older building which protruded from the back; the weather-stained wall was old also, and the sunlight, older than either, shone with an urgent warmth beneath the heavy green shade.  Rows of green blades were appearing in the border, set aside for ornament.  The air, the clouds, the light near the ground, all seemed alive with the peculiar revival only felt in the spring.

Anne was admitted with others to the corridor, and left while they turned to the places they sought.

“She might see the Matron,” said the porter, going along with a clatter of his feet to the far end of the corridor and knocking at a door.  The Matron almost immediately emerged carrying a large key.

“It was very sad, wasn’t it?” she began at once.  “It happened night before last.  It’s a fine boy, though it’s a bit too soon.  One of the young women’s got him.”  She led the way to the wide front stairs and began to ascend.  Stopping at a half-open door, she entered and Anne followed.

It was a smaller room than the big ward, and sunny.  It had an air of privacy, of comfort given by the sunshine only, for it was uncarpeted, and bare like the others.  Four young women were sewing the stiff linsey skirts worn in the Union.

“How’s the baby?” said the Matron.

“Asleep,” replied a good-looking, blond young woman, rising willingly from her work and going over to the window, beneath which was a wicker-cradle covered with a shawl.  She drew back the shawl, and Anne saw lying on one cheek on the pillow, the tiny, fuzzy, misshapen head and creased purple fist of a new baby.  The confidence of that tiny breathing creature lying asleep seemed strange to Anne, who knew how desolate it was.  It had already, as it were, taken possession of its place in the world, and had no intention of being dislodged.

“He’s a healthy little thing,” said the Matron.

“Greedy too,” said the blond young woman, with a laugh.