CHAPTER VII.
MOTHERHOOD At noon the next day Mrs.Fowler came into Gabriella's room and found her sewing beside the window which looked on a gray expanse of sky and street, where a few snowflakes were falling.
"Did you tell him, dear ?" she asked, arranging a handful of red roses in a little alabaster vase on the desk.
No, Gabriella had not told him.

She felt now that she should never be able to tell him, but all she said was: "I didn't get a chance.

How lovely those roses are." Mrs.Fowler set the vase where the gray light fell on it, and then turning with empty hands from the desk, asked gently: "Aren't you making a mistake, dear ?" Her movements were like those of a character in a play who is made to fill in an awkward pause with some mechanical action.
"I couldn't tell him last night," replied Gabriella; "he was sick all night." She was very pale, even her lips had lost their rich colour, and her eyes had a drawn and heavy look as if she had not slept.

Without looking at her mother-in-law, she went on with her sewing, working buttonholes of exquisite fineness in a small white garment.

In her lap there was a little wicker basket filled with spools of thread and odd bits of lace and cambric; and every now and then she stopped her work and gazed thoughtfully down on it as if she were trying to decide how she might use the jumble of scraps that it contained.
"Gabriella," said Mrs.Fowler suddenly, after she had watched her a moment, "did anything happen last night ?" "Happen?
No, what could have happened ?" "At what time did George come in ?" "About one o'clock.