The mosquitoes apart, Mary had adored the long, warm days--not too hot as
yet on the Byrdsnest's shady eminence--and the perpetually smiling skies,
so different from the sulky heavens of England. But she began to feel
very heavy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep cool, so that she
counted the days till her deliverance. She felt no fear of what was
coming. Dr. Hillyard had assured her that she was normal in every
respect--"as completely normal a woman as I have ever seen," she put it
--and should have no complications. Moreover, Mary had obtained from her
doctor a detailed description of what lay before her, and had read one or
two hand-books on the subject, so that she was spared the fearful
imaginings and reliance on old wives' tales which are the results of the
ancient policy of surrounding normal functions with mystery.
Now the nurse was here, a tall, grave-eyed Canadian girl, quiet of
speech, silent in every movement. Mary had wondered if she ought to go
into Dr. Hillyard's hospital, and was infinitely relieved to have her
assurance that it was unnecessary. She wanted her baby to be born here
in the country, in the sweet place she had prepared for it, surrounded by
those she loved. Everything here was perfect for the advent--she could
ask for nothing more.
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