I had presence of mind enough to try to hide my dismay.  The semi-darkness was a fortunate thing for me.  “How is the mother?” I asked.

“Splendid.  She’s asleep now.”

“And the child?”

“Oh!  Such a dear you never saw!”

“And it’s all right?”

“It’s just the living image of its mother!  You shall see!”

We moved towards the house, slowly, while I got my thoughts together.  “Dr. Perrin is here?” I asked.

“Yes.  He’s gone to his place to sleep.”

“And the nurse?”

“She’s with the child.  Come this way.”

We went softly up the steps of the veranda.  All the rooms opened upon it, and we entered one of them, and by the dim-shaded light I saw a white-clad woman bending over a crib.  “Miss Lyman, this is Mrs. Abbott,” said the maid.

The nurse straightened up.  “Oh! so you got here!  And just at the right time!”

“God grant it may be so!” I thought to myself.  “So this is the child!” I said, and bent over the crib.  The nurse turned up the light for me.

It is the form in which the miracle of life becomes most apparent to us, and dull indeed must be he who can encounter it without being stirred to the depths.  To see, not merely new life come into the world, but life which has been made by ourselves, or by those we love—­life that is a mirror and copy of something dear to us!  To see this tiny mite of warm and living flesh, and to see that it was Sylvia!  To trace each beloved lineament, so much alike, and yet so different—­half a portrait and half a caricature, half sublime and half ludicrous!  The comical little imitation of her nose, with each dear little curve, with even a remainder of the tiny groove underneath the tip, and the tiny corresponding dimple underneath the chin!  The soft silken fuzz which was some day to be Sylvia’s golden glory!  The delicate, sensitive lips, which were some day to quiver with feeling!  I gazed at them and saw them moving, I saw the breast moving—­and a wave of emotion swept over me, and the tears half-blinded me as I knelt.

But I could not forget the reason for my coming.  It meant little that the child was alive and seemingly well; I was not dealing with a disease which, like syphilis, starves and deforms in the very womb.  The little one was asleep, but I moved the light so as to examine its eyelids.  Then I turned to the nurse and asked:  “Miss Lyman, doesn’t it seem to you the eyelids are a trifle inflamed?”

“Why, I hadn’t noticed it,” she answered.

“Were the eyes washed?” I inquired.

“I washed the baby, of course—­”

“I mean the eyes especially.  The doctor didn’t drop anything into them?”

“I don’t think he considered it necessary.”

“It’s an important precaution,” I replied; “there are always possibilities of infection.”

“Possibly,” said the other.  “But you know, we did not expect this.  Dr. Overton was to be here in three or four days.”