Then her mind turned
to her own affairs. This little boy, David Allison, would be in Old
Chester on Saturday; he was to stay with Dr. Lavendar for a while, and
then come to her for a week or two. But she was beginning to regret
the invitation she had sent through Dr. King. It, would be pleasant to
have the little fellow, but "I can't keep him. so why should I take
him even for a week? I might get fond of him! I'm afraid it's a
mistake. I wonder what Lloyd would think? I don't believe he really
loves children. And yet--he cared when the baby died."
She pulled a low chair up to the hearth and sat down, her elbows on
her knees, her fingers ruffling the soft locks about her forehead.
"Oh, my baby! my little, little baby!" she said in a broken whisper.
The old passion of misery swept over her; she shrank lower in her
chair, rocking herself to and fro, her fingers pressed against her
eyes. It was thirteen years ago, and yet even now in these placid days
in Old Chester, to think of that time brought the breathless smother
of agony back again--the dying child, the foolish brute who had done
him to death.... If the baby had lived he would be nearly fourteen
years old now; a big boy! She wondered whether his hair would still
have been curly? She knew in her heart that she never could have had
the courage to cut those soft curls off--and yet, boys hated curls,
she thought; and smiled proudly.
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