She swallowed with an effort.
"Then—when we knew a baby was coming, we didn't care so much about this failure. We thought we could get enough to eat, anyhow, and with the baby we could be happy! We planned to give it one more summer's trial and then in the fall, when I was strong enough, we'd go back to the towns where Thad could get a job, and we could begin all over again if we had to—we were young then, you see—"
Helen leaned over and stroked her brow soothingly. "And, you're still young."
The head beneath her hand moved in denial.
"Old," the woman whispered, "very old—very old, Helen. You don't mind my calling you that, do you? I've been your friend so long without knowing you.
"We had planned for the baby so! I had sewed, we had decided on the name even. We knew they couldn't put us out without months of delay; we had fire wood and a roof, and a cow, and Thad could get food somehow. Clothes didn't matter. We were going to be happy in in spite of the failure.
"And then the baby—" She swallowed again and paused. "That is what made me old, Helen. If he had lived, it might have been different—But when he didn't even cry—not once—something broke inside me—and when the doctor told me I couldn't ever have another baby—you see, the last hope I had went out—"
She closed her eyes and did not open them as she said: "I lost him because I worried so much over our mistake; I'd worried beneath the surface; I grew weak with it and thought I wasn't worrying. I lost everything with that worry, even the desire to live, finally—I—That's what
