But now she could not forget the feeling of
that small, downy head that for a day or so nestled on her breast while
the young mother's feet all but slipped over the brink. She remembered
the strange look in the child's deep eyes the night it died. The
lonely, aged look that, in passing, seemed trying to fix one familiar
object. And when the dim light went out in the little face and only a
dead baby lay in her arms, maternity had been called forth from its
slumber and in following Betty's child, became vitalized and definite.
"I--I think I shall adopt a child." So she had thought while the cold
little head yet lay in the hollow of her arm. She never let go this
thought and only hesitated before voicing it to Truedale because she
feared he could not understand and might cruelly misunderstand. Life was
hard enough and difficult enough for them both just then, and often,
coming into the quiet home at the day's end, Lynda would say, to cheer
her faint heart:
"Oh, well, it's really like coming to a hearth upon which the fire is
not yet kindled. But, thank heaven! it is a clean hearth, not cluttered
with ashes--it is ready for the fire."
But was it? More and more as the time went on and Truedale kept his
faith and walked his way near hers--oh! they were thankful for that--but
still apart, Lynda wondered. It was all so futile, so utterly selfish
and childish--yet neither spoke.
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