“Don’t make her cry again, Mr. Kerr, and you may come in at eight.”

As she went out with the cup of steaming food, she looked back to ask: 

“Did you see the baby?”

“Don’t mention the damned baby!” said Osborn with deep anger.

“The baby can’t help it,” answered the nurse, going out.

Osborn sat there thinking.  No!  The baby couldn’t help it.  That was very true.  Losing his hostility to this fragment of life, he began to feel a faint curiosity.  What was it like?

At eight o’clock he would look at the baby.

The nurse looked out of the bedroom door just before eight and signalled to him.  This time she did not leave them alone, though she busied herself at the other side of the room, with her back to them, because she knew how shy these young things were.  And this time Marie looked at Osborn with the ghost of a smile, barely more than a tremor of the lips.  He bent down.

She whispered into his ear:  “I don’t—­think—­I could ever—­go—­through it—­again.”

“Never again, my sweetheart,” he whispered back.

She made a motion with her lips; he kissed them gently.  “Good night,” he murmured, “sleep well, poor little angel.”

“She’ll sleep,” said the nurse unexpectedly, from near the fire.  She was tending the baby now, and Osborn looked across at it in the subdued light.  What a little mottled pink thing!  What creases!  What insignificance to have brought about all this!

“Look at your bonnie baby, Mr. Kerr,” said the nurse, holding the mite aloft.

“Is that a bonnie baby?” said Osborn sourly.

“Osborn,” whispered Marie from the bed, “he’s a beautiful baby!”

Osborn looked down, startled, and saw in her wan face some glimmer of an unknown thing.  She—­she—­was pleased with the baby! She admired and loved it!

He went out astonished.

The next morning, still flat on her pillows, she was nursing the baby with a smile on her mouth.  Under her pink cap the faintest colour bloomed in her cheek; she asked for a fresh pink ribbon for her nightgown; she had slept peacefully.  Some flowers were sent very early, with congratulations.  They were from Rokeby and from Julia, and were arranged near her bed as she lay with this wonderful toy, this little new pet, Osborn’s son, beside her.  She had emerged out of her black darkness into light.

CHAPTER IX

PROBLEMS

Throughout Marie’s convalescence there were things to buy; little things, but endless; to a woman who has suffered so greatly for their mutual joy can a man deny anything?  The husband of a year cannot.  Every day, before he went to his work—­he was third salesman to one of the best Light Car Companies in town—­Osborn held consultation, over the breakfast table, with the nurse.  He used to say, as bravely and carelessly as if he felt no pinch at his pocket, “Is there anything you want to-day, Nurse?” And there was always something, a lotion, or a powder, or a new sponge, or a cake of a particular soap.  The nurse had no compunction in adding:  “If you do see a few nice grapes, or a really tender chicken, Mr. Kerr, I believe she might fancy them.”