Carol and David were a little indignant at first, but finally they decided to make allowances for the doctor,—­he was old, and of course he must be tired of babies, he had ushered in so many.  They would try and apply their Christian charity to him, though it was a great strain on their religion.

But what should be done with Julia?  David was so ill, Carol so weak, the baby so tender.  Was it safe to keep her there?  But could they let that little rosebud go?

“Why, I will just take her home with me,” said Aunt Grace gently.  “And we’ll keep her until you are ready.  Oh, it won’t be a bit of trouble.  We want her.”

That settled it.  The baby was to go.

“For once in my life I have made a sacrifice,” said Carol grimly.  “I think I must be improving.  I have allowed myself to be hurt, and crushed, and torn to shreds, for the good of some one else.  I certainly must be improving.”

Later she thought, “She will know all her aunties before she knows me.  She will love them better.  When I go home, she will not know me, and will cry for Aunt Grace.  She will be afraid of me.  Really, some things are very hard.”  But to David she said that of course the doctors were right, and she and David were so old and sensible that it would be quite easy to do as they were bid.  And they were so used to having just themselves that things would go on as they always had.

But more nights than one she cried herself to sleep, craving the touch of the little rosebud baby learning of motherhood from some one else.

CHAPTER XIV

NEPTUNE’S SECOND DAUGHTER

“Chicago, Illinois.

“Dearest Carol and David—­

“Carol, dear, an awful thing has happened.  Do you remember the millionaire’s son who discovered me up the cherry tree years ago when I was an infant?  He comes to see me now and then.  He is very nice and attentive, and all of my friends have selected the color schemes for their boudoirs in my forthcoming palatial home.  One night he telephoned and said his mother was in town with him, and they should like to come right up if I did not mind.  I did not know he was in town, I hardly knew he had a mother, and I was in the act of shampooing my hair.  Phyllis was making candy, and Gladys was reading aloud to us both.  Imagine the mother of a millionaire’s son coming right up, and I in a shampoo.

“‘Oh,’ I wailed, ’I haven’t anything to wear, and I am not used to millionaires’ sons’ mothers, and I won’t know what to say to her.’

“‘Leave it to us, Connie!’ cried my friends valiantly.

“Gladys whirled the magazine under the bed, and Phyllis turned out the electricity under the chafing-dish and put the candy in the window to finish at a later date.