The Inner Life

IT WAS a bad case. A lamp overturned near the bed, and the sheet set on fire the woman who lay there awaiting the birth of her child, unable to summon assistance, was rescued too late to save her life. She was carried to the hospital, where she lingered a few hours.

She was conscious, and suffered agony. But worse than the pain of her burns, and worse than her cruel birth-pangs, was the fear of what would happen to her children.

There were eight of them, all dependent upon her, for her husband had died six months earlier. There was Daisy, named from the flowers in the country where she was born before the little household moved to the grim city. Bob and Bill, the twins, whom she had always spoiled; and Nell, who was a cripple, and needed more care than all of them.

None of the children were old enough to work, and now the ninth child was approaching.

The woman died after giving birth to a girl. She held her new-born infant to her tortured breast to the last, whilst her mind throbbed in a fever of dread and anxiety. The children, poor lambs, what would become of them? Her last fluttering breath was a passionate prayer for the welfare of her little brood.

The local paper got up a subscription. A neighbour offered shelter to the eldest girl and the youngest boy. A lady, who loved children and had none of her own, adopted the baby. The world ground on like a car of Juggernaut, blindly indifferent to all these events.

As to the lady who had adopted the baby, her life was completely transformed. She had slowly grown middle-aged in solitude, she suddenly grew young again in the company of the child. Her days had been patches of dull monotony, but they suddenly exhibited a pattern of thrilling novelty. She experienced a foolish delight in the tyranny of the child.