“No — she's going to have a baby.”

The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror.

“I want my mother,” came the cry of panic.

“Let Tilly undress you,” he said. “You're tired.”

There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour.

“I want my mother,” rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation.

Tilly came forward, her heart wrung.

“Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb,” she crooned. “You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel.”