The storm had somewhat abated, but she still "sat and sat," and even tried to read.

I don't know whether it was a Bible or some profane magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably the latter, for the words all ran together and made such sad nonsense that she was forced at last to put the book down and turn to that dearer volume which lay before her in the cradle, with its white initial leaf as yet unsoiled, and try to look forward to its mysterious future.

And, rocking the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but still was wide-awake as ever.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when she at last lay down in her clothes.
How long she slept she could not remember, but she awoke with a dreadful choking in her throat, and found herself standing, trembling all over, in the middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, and she was "saying something." The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked up and down trying to hush it when she heard a scratching at the door.

She opened it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, their dog, who crawled, dripping with water, into the room.

She would like to have looked out, not in the faint hope of her husband's coming, but to see how things looked; but the wind shook the door so savagely that she could hardly hold it.