Martie had hoped to be in her own little home when the baby came, but this was swiftly proven impossible.  Wallace’s play failed after the wonderful salary had been paid for only eight weeks.  He idled about with his wife for a few happy weeks, and then got another engagement with a small comic opera troupe, and philosophically and confidently went on the road.  Presently he was home again and in funds, but this time it was only a few days before the next parting.

The golden Indian Summer came, and the city blazed in glorious colour.  Homecoming began; the big houses on the Avenue were opened.  Martie never saw the burning leaves of September in later years without a memory of the poignant uneasiness with which she first had walked beneath them, worrying about money, about Wallace’s prospects, about herself and her child.  Many of her walks were filled with imaginary conversations with her husband, in which she argued, protested, reproached.  She was lonely, she was still strange to the city, and she was approaching her ordeal.

Even when he was with her, she missed the old loverlike attitude.  She was wistful, gentle, dependent now, and she knew her wistfulness and gentleness and dependence vaguely irritated.  But she could not help it; she wanted to touch him, to cling to him, to have him praise and encourage her, and tell her how much he loved her.

Her hour came near, and she went bravely to meet it.  Wallace was in Baltimore, playing juvenile roles in a stock company.  Martie went alone to the big hospital, and put herself into the hands of a capable but indifferent young nurse, who candidly explained that she had more patients than she could care for without the newcomer.  Martie, frightened by the businesslike preparations and the clean, ether-scented rooms, submitted and obeyed with a sick heart.  Through the dull quiet of a dark November day the first snow of the season, the first Martie had ever seen, began to flutter.  Moving restlessly about her little room, she stopped at the window to look out upon it through a haze of pain.

Heat and hot lights, strange halls, a strange doctor, and early evening in a great operating-room; she had only a dazed impression of them all.  Life roared and crackled about her.  She leaped into the offered oblivion with no thought of what it might entail....

After a long while she awakened, in a peaceful dawning, to hear nurses cheerfully chatting, and the boy warmly fussing and grunting in his basket.  The little room was flooded with sunlight, sunlight bright on a snowy world, and the young women who had been so casually indifferent to another woman’s agony were proudly awake to the charms of the baby.  The cocoon was lifted; Martie in a tremor of love and tenderness looked down at the scowling, wrinkled little face.

Instantly terror for his safety, for his health, for his immortal soul possessed her.  She looked uneasily at Miss Everett, when that nurse bore him away.  Did the woman realize what motherhood meant?  Did she dream the value of that flannel bundle she was so jauntily carrying?