out as the other had done; but, as the weeks went on and he lived and
fed and fattened, her fear was lost in the wondering rapture of
possession. Nothing so perfectly alive could cease to be.

When she was well again she dismissed the nurse and took, herself,
entire charge of the child. "There are no mammies these days," she had
said in reply to Dudley's remonstrances, "and I can't trust him with one
of the new negroes--I really can't. Why, I saw one slap a baby once." So
she bathed and dressed him in the mornings and rocked him to sleep at
midday and at dark, and in the brightness of the forenoon gave him an
airing on the piazza that overlooked the back garden. From the time of
her getting up to her lying down he left her arms only when he was laid
asleep in the little crib beside her bed.

But, for all this, he was a healthy, hearty baby, with a round bald
head, great blue eyes like china marbles, and a ridiculous mouth that
would not shut over the pink gums and hide the dimples at the corners.
He did not cry because, as yet, he hadn't seen the moon, and the lamp
had been carefully emptied and given to him as soon as he was big enough
to hold out his hands. Pins had not stuck him, because Eugenia had
guarded against the danger by sewing ribbons on his tiny innumerable
slips. And he was as amiable as his elders are apt to be so long as they
are permitted to regard the visible universe as a possible plaything.

At this time it was Eugenia's custom to hold him on her lap while she
ate her meals, or to leave Miss Chris in charge if the small tyrant
chanced to be asleep. Miss Chris had become a willing servitor; but she
occasionally felt it to be her duty to put a modest check upon Eugenia's
maternal frenzy.

"My dear, there were ten of us," she remarked one day, "and I am sure we
never required as much attention as this one."

"And nine of you died," Eugenia solemnly retorted.

Miss Chris was compelled to assent; but she immediately added: "Not
until we had reached middle age. Belinda died youngest, and it was of
pneumonia, at the age of forty-one. You don't think neglect during her
infancy had anything to do with it, do you? Nobody ever accused my poor
dear mother of not looking after her children."

But Eugenia stood her ground. "One can never tell," was all she said,
though a moment later she wiped her eyes and sobbed: "Oh, papa! If papa
could only see him! He would be so proud."

"Of course, darling," said Mi