“I’m jes’ comin’ ter dat dis minute, suh,—­w’at I be’n tellin’ you is all a part of it.  Dis yer Janet, w’at’s Mis’ ’Livy’s half-sister, is ez much like her ez ef dey wuz twins.  Folks sometimes takes ’em fer one ernudder,—­I s’pose it tickles Janet mos’ ter death, but it do make Mis’ ‘Livy rippin’.  An’ den ‘way back yander jes’ after de wah, w’en de ole Carteret mansion had ter be sol’, Adam Miller bought it, an’ dis yer Janet an’ her husban’ is be’n livin’ in it ever sence ole Adam died, ‘bout a year ago; an’ dat makes de majah mad, ‘ca’se he don’ wanter see cullud folks livin’ in de ole fam’ly mansion w’at he wuz bawn in.  An’ mo’over, an’ dat’s de wust of all, w’iles Mis’ ‘Livy ain’ had no child’en befo’, dis yer sister er her’n is got a fine-lookin’ little yaller boy, w’at favors de fam’ly so dat ef Mis’ ’Livy’d see de chile anywhere, it’d mos’ break her heart fer ter think ‘bout her not havin’ no child’en herse’f.  So ter-day, w’en Mis’ ‘Livy wuz out ridin’ an’ met dis yer Janet wid her boy, an’ w’en Mis’ ‘Livy got ter studyin’ ’bout her own chances, an’ how she mought not come thoo safe, she jes’ had a fit er hysterics right dere in de buggy.  She wuz mos’ home, an’ William got her here, an’ you knows de res’.”

Major Carteret, from the head of the stairs, called the doctor anxiously.

“You had better come along up now, Jane,” said the doctor.

For two long hours they fought back the grim spectre that stood by the bedside.  The child was born at dawn.  Both mother and child, the doctor said, would live.

“Bless its ’ittle hea’t!” exclaimed Mammy Jane, as she held up the tiny mite, which bore as much resemblance to mature humanity as might be expected of an infant which had for only a few minutes drawn the breath of life.  “Bless its ‘ittle hea’t! it’s de we’y spit an’ image er its pappy!”

The doctor smiled.  The major laughed aloud.  Jane’s unconscious witticism, or conscious flattery, whichever it might be, was a welcome diversion from the tense strain of the last few hours.

“Be that as it may,” said Dr. Price cheerfully, “and I’ll not dispute it, the child is a very fine boy,—­a very fine boy, indeed!  Take care of it, major,” he added with a touch of solemnity, “for your wife can never bear another.”

With the child’s first cry a refreshing breeze from the distant ocean cooled the hot air of the chamber; the heavy odor of the magnolias, with its mortuary suggestiveness, gave place to the scent of rose and lilac and honeysuckle.  The birds in the garden were singing lustily.

All these sweet and pleasant things found an echo in the major’s heart.  He stood by the window, and looking toward the rising sun, breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  All nature seemed to rejoice in sympathy with his happiness at the fruition of this long-deferred hope, and to predict for this wonderful child a bright and glorious future.