Then the baby was born, without unusual difficulty:  a boy with straight back and strong legs.  The first day she hated him for the tides of pain and hopeless fear he had caused; she resented his raw ugliness.  After that she loved him with all the devotion and instinct at which she had scoffed.  She marveled at the perfection of the miniature hands as noisily as did Kennicott, she was overwhelmed by the trust with which the baby turned to her; passion for him grew with each unpoetic irritating thing she had to do for him.

He was named Hugh, for her father.

Hugh developed into a thin healthy child with a large head and straight delicate hair of a faint brown.  He was thoughtful and casual—­a Kennicott.

For two years nothing else existed.  She did not, as the cynical matrons had prophesied, “give up worrying about the world and other folks’ babies soon as she got one of her own to fight for.”  The barbarity of that willingness to sacrifice other children so that one child might have too much was impossible to her.  But she would sacrifice herself.  She understood consecration—­she who answered Kennicott’s hints about having Hugh christened:  “I refuse to insult my baby and myself by asking an ignorant young man in a frock coat to sanction him, to permit me to have him!  I refuse to subject him to any devil-chasing rites!  If I didn’t give my baby—­my baby—­enough sanctification in those nine hours of hell, then he can’t get any more out of the Reverend Mr. Zitterel!”

“Well, Baptists hardly ever christen kids.  I was kind of thinking more about Reverend Warren,” said Kennicott.

Hugh was her reason for living, promise of accomplishment in the future, shrine of adoration—­and a diverting toy.  “I thought I’d be a dilettante mother, but I’m as dismayingly natural as Mrs. Bogart,” she boasted.

For two—­years Carol was a part of the town; as much one of Our Young Mothers as Mrs. McGanum.  Her opinionation seemed dead; she had no apparent desire for escape; her brooding centered on Hugh.  While she wondered at the pearl texture of his ear she exulted, “I feel like an old woman, with a skin like sandpaper, beside him, and I’m glad of it!  He is perfect.  He shall have everything.  He sha’n’t always stay here in Gopher Prairie. . . .  I wonder which is really the best, Harvard or Yale or Oxford?”

II

The people who hemmed her in had been brilliantly reinforced by Mr. and Mrs. Whittier N. Smail—­Kennicott’s Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie.

The true Main Streetite defines a relative as a person to whose house you go uninvited, to stay as long as you like.  If you hear that Lym Cass on his journey East has spent all his time “visiting” in Oyster Center, it does not mean that he prefers that village to the rest of New England, but that he has relatives there.  It does not mean that he has written to the relatives these many years, nor that they have ever given signs of a desire to look upon him.  But “you wouldn’t expect a man to go and spend good money at a hotel in Boston, when his own third cousins live right in the same state, would you?”