“Dr. Perrin is asleep?” I asked.

“Yes.  He was up all last night.”

“I think I will have to ask you to waken him,” I said.

“Is it as serious as that?” she inquired, anxiously, having sensed some of the emotion I was trying to conceal.

“It might be very serious,” I said.  “I really ought to have a talk with the doctor.”

13.  The nurse went out, and I drew up a chair and sat by the crib, watching the infant go back to sleep.  I was glad to be alone, to have a chance to get myself together.  But suddenly I heard a rustle of skirts in the doorway behind me, and turned and saw a white-clad figure; an elderly gentlewoman, slender and fragile, grey-haired and rather pale, wearing a soft dressing-gown.  Aunt Varina!

I rose.  “This must be Mrs. Abbott,” she said.  Oh, these soft, caressing Southern voices, that cling to each syllable as a lover to a hand at parting.

She was a very prim and stately little lady, and I think she did not intend to shake hands; but I felt pretty certain that under her coating of formality, she was eager for a chance to rhapsodize.  “Oh, what a lovely child!” I cried; and instantly she melted.

“You have seen our babe!” she exclaimed; and I could not help smiling.  A few months ago, “the little stranger,” and now “our babe”!

She bent over the cradle, with her dear old sentimental, romantic soul in her eyes.  For a minute or two she quite forgot me; then, looking up, she murmured, “It is as wonderful to me as if it were my own!”

“All of us who love Sylvia feel that,” I responded.

She rose, and suddenly remembering hospitality, asked me as to my present needs.  Then she said, “I must go and see to sending some telegrams.”

“Telegrams?” I inquired.

“Yes.  Think what this news will mean to dear Douglas!  And to Major Castleman!”

“You haven’t informed them?”

“We couldn’t send any smaller boat on account of the storm.  We must telegraph Dr. Overton also, you understand.”

“To tell him not to come?” I ventured.  “But don’t you think, Mrs. Tuis, that he may wish to come anyhow?”

“Why should he wish that?”

“I’m not sure, but—­I think he might.”  How I longed for a little of Sylvia’s skill in social lying!  “Every newly-born infant ought to be examined by a specialist, you know; there may be a particular régime, a diet for the mother—­one cannot say.”

“Dr. Perrin didn’t consider it necessary.”

“I am going to have a talk with Dr. Perrin at once,” I said.

I saw a troubled look in her eyes.  “You don’t mean you think there’s anything the matter?”

“No—­no,” I lied.  “But I’m sure you ought to wait before you have the launch go.  Please do.”

“If you insist,” she said.  I read bewilderment in her manner, and just a touch of resentment.  Was it not presumptuous of me, a stranger, and one—­well, possibly not altogether a lady?  She groped for words; and the ones that came were:  “Dear Douglas must not be kept waiting.”