"It's hardly fair to his father--such a fine little chap. You--you have
a monopoly of him this way, you know."

She flushed at the implication of selfishness, but said nothing.

"How--how is that? Don't you think so?" he persisted kindly.

"I reckon you can't feel what I feel, Doctor. Why should I make his
heart troubled when he must stay there? David knows I hate it to bide
so long without him. He--he knows. If he could get to come back, don't
you guess he'd come right quick, anyway? Would he come any sooner for
his son than for me?" It was the doctor's turn for silence. She asked
again, this time with a tremor in her voice. "You reckon he would,
Doctor?"

"No! Of--of course not," he cried.

"Then what would be the use of telling him, only to trouble him?"

"He--he might like to think about him--you know--might like it."

"He said he must go to Africa in May, so now he must have started--and
our wedding was on May-day. Now it's the last of May; he must be there.
He might be obliged to bide in that country a whole month--maybe two.
It's so far away, and his letters take so long to come! Doctor, are they
fighting there now? Sometimes I wake in the night and think what if he
should die away off there in that far place--"

"No, no. That's done. Not fighting, thank God. Rest your heart in peace.
Now, after I'm gone, don't stay up here alone too much. I'm a physician,
and I know what's best for you."

She took the now soundly sleeping child from the doctor's arms and laid
him on the bed in the canvas room. The day had been warm, and the fire
was out in the great fireplace; the evening wind, light and cool, laden
with sweet odors, swept through the cabin.

They talked late that night of Hoyle and his future, but never a word
more of David. The old man thought he now understood her feeling, and
respected it. She certainly had a right to one small weakness, this
strong fair creature of the hills. Her husband must release himself from
his absorbing cares and return simply for love of her--not at the call
of his baby's wail.

So the doctor and his diminutive namesake drove contentedly away next
morning in the great covered wagon, and Cassandra, standing by her
mother's door, smiled and lifted her baby for one last embrace from his
loving little uncle.

"I'm goin' to grow a big man, an' I'll teach him to make pictures--big
ones," he called back.

"Yas, you'll do a heap. You bettah watch out to be right good and
pe