does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to her death?

Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her!

The doctor thinks she is going to die.

No, no! What the doctor said was that the child will be born dead, but the mother herself recover.

But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things!

Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are they not?

[The Old Women chuckle again.]

Ah well, 'tis the way of the world—births and deaths, births and deaths.

Yes; and then more births.

[For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony.]

There! She is going to scream again!

Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice.

Yes, it is a good sign.

That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of his would grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps.

When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she does. He grows absolutely livid in the face!

A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but, after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home again empty-handed.

[The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into silence.]

What ails her now? Surely she has not expired?

Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a dead faint and been brought in here, and then we should have had some work to do. No, no; she's not dead.

Then why need we stay here longer?

Oh, ask Him. How can we tell what is going to happen?

He never tells us anything—never!

No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us—for ever pulling us out of our beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have come after all!

Nevertheless, since we are here, we may as well do something. There! She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we?

No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough watching by now?

Oh, I just sit quiet and wait—sit quiet and wait.

What a patient old lady you are, to be sure!

[The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder.]

How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out.

Oh, we have all been through it in our time.

Yes, but I doubt whether she has before. Listen to that voice of hers! One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet and gentle one.

Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a sort of a night sound in it.

Yes. It puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter solitude and desolation.

Yes; and of despair and a broken heart. But is there no one in the room with her? Why is it we hear no voices but hers—no voices but that terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers?

Oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark their voices when she is screaming. Have you never noticed that a scream always appears to stand out from other sounds? No matter how many persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to it.

Yes, once I heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. The street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have been the only one in it.

But this is a stranger sound than any man could utter.

Perhaps it is a trifle more shrill.

No, no, it is more prolonged.

Perhaps you are right. It is a stranger sound than any man could utter. Besides, it has the ring of death in it.

Well? Was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? He died, didn't he?

Yes, yes; but never mind. We need not quarrel about it.

[For a moment there is silence. Then the screams begin again.]

What a strange thing is a scream! If it is you yourself who are screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is some one else———

What throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? Surely it cannot be a woman's throat? No, no; I cannot believe it!

The cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round.

Or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest. Now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. Listen to the choking noise she is making!

It sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest.

Or as though she were being strangled.

[The screams suddenly cease.]

There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was such a monotonous, ugly screaming.

Did you expect to find it beautiful, then?

[The Old Women chuckle.]

Hush! Is He here?

I do not know.

I believe He is.

He does not approve of laughter.

They say He laughs Himself at times.

Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about Him.

Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us.

[The Old Women chuckle again.]

What I want to know is—Will the baby be a boy or a girl?

Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with.

I hope it may die before birth.

How kind of you!

Not more so than of you.

And I trust it may grow up to be a general.

[The Old Women chuckle again.]

Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it.

And I do not quite like your looking so gloomy.

No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or gloomy; so let each be what she pleases.

[There is a pause.]

Babies are merry enough things, if you like.

Yes, and spoilt too.

And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when they are dying.

Then they grow less clamorous—they just stretch themselves out, and require rocking to sleep no more.

But they are such playful little dears! How I love to wash them just after they are born!

And I to wash them just after they are dead!

No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead. That is all about it.

But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they want? It does not seem to me the proper thing.

They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis