JENNY was ivory now: the baby had stolen all the coral from her cheeks. Outside, the treetops shook tremulous black lace across the silver deeps of the sky and jigged with ebony boughs upon the circle of the moon. Clear as bells sounded the slow breakers on Trewinnard beach, and in the tall room a white moth circled round the candle-flame interminably. A rat squeaked in the wall.
"Fancy," said Jenny to May, who sat in the shadow by the foot of the bed. "I thought I shouldn't like nursing a baby, but I think it's glorious."
A curlew cried through the October night and was answered far down the valley.
"I wish mother could have seen my baby," sighed Jenny. "It's my birthday next week. Funny if we'd both been born the same day."
The candle spat with the moth's death, then burned with renewed brightness.
"Time the rogue went to sleep," said May authoritatively.
"Feel his hands," said Jenny. "They're like velvet bows."
"They are lovely and soft, aren't they?" May agreed.
"Won't the girls talk when they hear about my baby?"
"Rather," said May reassuringly.
"I expect they'll wonder if he's like me."
Remote winds muttered over the hill-side, and the curlews set up a chorus of chattering.
"Night's lovely with a baby," said Jenny, and very soon fell asleep.