AC dBooks

I
pictured the sweet kitchen-parlour in Sunny Lodge, with the bright
silver bowls on the high mantelpiece. There was no fire under the
_slouree_ now. The light of that house was out, and two old people were
sitting on either side of a cold hearth.
I passed in review my maidenhood, my marriage, and my love, and told
myself that the darkest days of my loneliness in London had hitherto
been relieved by one bright hope. I had only to live on and Martin would
come back to me. But now I was utterly alone, I was in the presence of
nothingness. The sanctuary within me where Martin had lived was only a
cemetery of the soul.
"Why? Why? Why?" I cried again, but there was no answer.
Thus I passed my Christmas Day (for which I had formed such different
plans), and I hardly knew if it was for punishment or warning that I was
at last compelled to think of something besides my own loss.
My unborn child!
No man on earth can know anything about that tragic prospect, though
millions of women must have had to face it.


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