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Show Page 146 upon the doorstep, his head in his hands, moaning with each sound Anne did make. Through the night we sat beside her, but the child refused to come. As the dark began to retreat before the dawn, Margaret at last went to her basket. "She is becoming overwearied," she said. From the basket she drew a pouch filled with powder she had dried from the jelly found in the head of a drum fish. Quickly she made it into a broth, which she held to Anne's lips. "Drink," she told her. "This will hurry the little one up." I confess, when the babe came, I closed my eyes, shutting out everything except Anne's groans, her gasping breaths. And I would have been happy to keep them closed except that Margaret snapped, "Look alive girl! I need some help here." So I opened my eyes to see a wrinkled, blood-smeared mite of a person in Margaret's hands. Its eyes were squeezed tight-shut and its mouth screwed up in a pucker. "A girl," Margaret said. "She is very small, but perfect. I trust she will not be so stubborn all her life." Before I could comment, Margaret placed the babe in my hands. I had never held a real live baby before, the closest I had come being my Bartholemew baby, the doll my father bought for me at the Bartholomew fair. As the babe let out a high, thin wail, helpless terror came creeping upon me, for fear I was doing the wee thing harm. |