“Give him to me!” cried Olof, stretching out his arms impatiently.

And Kyllikki smiled and handed him a tiny bundle wrapped in woollen rugs.

Olof’s hands trembled as he felt the weight of it in his arms.

“Help her down, Antti; and come back a little later on—­I won’t ask you in—­not just now,” he said confusedly to the driver.

The man laughed, and Kyllikki joined in.

But Olof took no heed—­he was already on the way in with his burden.  A few steps up the path he stopped, and lifted a corner of the wrappings with one hand.  A tiny reddish face with two bright eyes looked up at him.

A tremor of delight thrilled him at the sight; he clasped the bundle closer to his breast, as if fearing to lose it.  Hastily he covered up the little face once more, and hurried in.

Kyllikki watched him with beaming eyes.  Following after, she stood in the doorway and looked round, with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, taking it all in at a glance—­the genial welcome of the blazing fire, the tiny bed,—­he had told her nothing of this,—­the sofa close by, and the tray set out on the table, and coffee standing ready....

But Olof was bending over the cradle.

“These things—­is it safe to undo them?” he asked, fumbling with safety-pins.

“Yes, that’s all right,” laughed Kyllikki, loosening her own cloak.

Olof had taken off the outer wrappings.  He lifted the little arms, held the boy upright, looking at him critically, like a doctor examining recruits.  “Long in the limbs—­and sound enough, by the look of him!” Then he gazed earnestly into the child’s face, with its wise, bright eyes, and seemed to find something there that promised well for the future.

“Dear little rascal!” he cried ecstatically, and tenderly he kissed the child’s forehead.  The boy made no sound, but seemed to be observing the pair.

Olof laid him down in the cradle.  “Can’t he say anything?  Can’t you laugh, little son?”

He blinked his eyes, smacked his lips, and uttered a little whistling sound as if calling some shy bird—­he had never seen anything like it; it seemed to come of itself.

“Laughing—­he’s laughing ... that’s the way!”

Kyllikki was standing behind him, leaning against the sofa, watching them both.

“And his hands!  Sturdy hands to drain a marsh!  So mother was right, was she?  Ey, such a little fist!  A real marsh-mole!” And he kissed the tiny hands delightedly.

“But look at his nails—­they want cutting already.  Ah, yes, mother knew father would like to do it himself, so she did.”

And he hurried to Kyllikki’s work-basket, and took out a small pair of scissors.  “Father’ll manage it—­come!”

And he fell on his knees beside the bed.

“Don’t be afraid—­softly, softly—­there!  Father’s hands are none so hard, for all he’s so big.”  He cut the nails, kissing the little fingers in between.  The boy laughed.  Kyllikki leaned over towards them, smiling more warmly still.