But the fear thickened after this.  A carriage drew up, and Howard saw two doctors descend, carrying bags in their hands.  His heart sickened within him, yet he was helped by seeing their unembarrassed and cheerful air, the nod that one of them, a big, fresh-faced man, gave to the coachman, the look he cast round the beautiful old house.  People could think of such things, Howard saw, in a moment like that.  He went down and met them in the hall, and had that strange sense of unreality in moments of crisis, when one hears one’s own voice saying courteous things, without any volition of one’s own.  The big doctor looked at him kindly.  “It is all quite simple and straightforward!” he said.  “You must not let yourself be anxious; these times pass by and one wonders afterwards how one could have been so much afraid.”

But the hours brought no relief; the doctors stayed long in the house; something had occurred, Howard knew not what, did not dare to conjecture.  The silence, the beauty of the whole scene, was insupportably horrible to him.  He walked up and down in the afternoon, gazing at Maud’s windows—­once a nurse came to the window and opened it a little.  He went back at last into the house; the doctors were there, talking in low tones to Mrs. Graves.  “I will be back first thing in the morning,” said one; the worst, then, had not happened.  But as he appeared a look of inquiry passed between them and Mrs. Graves.  She beckoned to him.

“She is very ill,” she said; “it is over, and she has survived; but the child is dead.”

Howard stood blankly staring at the group.  “I don’t understand,” he said; “the child is dead—­yes, but what about Maud?”

The doctor came up to him.  “It was sudden,” he said; “she had an attack—­we had anticipated it—­the child was born dead; but there is every reason to believe that she will recover; it has been a great shock, but she is young and strong, and she is full of pluck—­ you need not be anxious at present; there is no imminent danger.”  Then he added, “Mr. Kennedy, get some rest yourself; she may need you, and you must not be useless:  I tell you, the first danger is over and will not recur; you must just force yourself to eat—­try to sleep.”

“Sleep?” said Howard with a wan smile, “yes, if you could tell me how to do that!”

The doctors departed; Howard went off with Mrs. Graves.  She made him sit down, she told him a few details; then she said, “Dearest boy, it’s no use wasting words or pity just now—­you know what I feel; I would tell you plainly if I feared the worst.  I do not fear it, and now let me exercise my art on you, for I am sure I can help you a little.  One must not play with these things, but this is in earnest.”

She came and sate down beside him, and stroked his hair, his brow; she said, “Just try, if you can, to cast everything out of your mind; relax your limbs, be entirely passive; and don’t listen to what I say—­just let your mind float free.”  Presently she began to speak in a low voice to him; he hardly heeded what she said, for a strange drowsiness settled down upon him like the in-flowing of some oblivious tide, and he knew no more.