“Safe now, I think,” he said quietly.

Roger went to Deborah and found her asleep, her face at peace.  He went to his room and fell himself into a long dreamless slumber.

In the days which followed, again he sat at her bedside and together they watched the child in her arms.  So feeble still the small creature appeared that they both spoke in whispers.  But as little by little its strength returned, Deborah too became herself.  And though still jealously watchful of its every movement, she had time for other thinking.  She had talks with her husband, not only about their baby but about his work and hers.  Slowly her old interest in all they had had in common returned, and to the messages from outside she gave again a kindlier ear.

“Allan tells me,” she said one day, when she was alone with her father, “that I can have no more children.  And I’m glad of that.  But at least I have one,” she added, “and he has already made me feel like a different woman than before.  I feel sometimes as though I’d come a million miles along in life.  And yet again it feels so close, all that I left back there in school.  Because I’m so much closer now—­to every mother and every child.  At last I’m one of the family.”

CHAPTER XLII

Of that greater family, one member had been in the house all through the month which had just gone by.  But he had been so quiet, so carefully unobtrusive, that he had been scarcely noticed.  Very early each morning, day after day, John had gone outside for his breakfast and thence to the office where he himself had handled the business as well as he could, only coming to Roger at night now and then with some matter he could not settle alone, but always stoutly declaring that he needed no other assistance.

“Don’t come, Mr. Gale,” he had urged.  “You look worn out.  You’ll be sick yourself if you ain’t careful.  And anyhow, if you hang around you’ll be here whenever she wants you.”

Early in Deborah’s illness, John had offered to give up his room for the use of one of the nurses.

“That’s mighty thoughtful of you, Johnny,” Allan had responded.  “But we’ve got plenty of room as it is.  Just you stick around.  We want you here.”

“All right, Doc.  If there’s any little thing, you know—­answering the ’phone at night or anything else that I can do—­”

“Thank you, so; I’ll let you know.  But in the meantime go to bed.”

From that day on, John had taken not only his breakfast but his supper, too, outside, and no one had noticed his absence.  Coming in late, he had hobbled silently up to his room, stopping to listen at Deborah’s door.  He had kept so completely out of the way, it was not till the baby was three weeks old, and past its second crisis, that Deborah thought to ask for John.  When he came to her bed, she smiled up at him with the baby in her arms.

“I thought we’d see him together,” she said.  John stood on his crutches staring down.  And as Deborah watched him, all at once her look grew intent.  “Johnny,” she said softly, “go over there, will you, and turn up the light, so we can see him better.”