ew little puffs of
breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and
rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and
extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of
his feet by putting it ankle deep into her mouth. "Would you ever think
a foot could be so tiny, Greta?" she said. And the little one plunged
about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than
once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "No, no; Ralphie must
not touch," said Mercy with sudden gravity. "Only think, Ralphie pet,
one week--only one--ay, less--only six days now, and then--oh, then--" A
long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the
convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy.

All at once Mercy's manner changed. She turned toward Greta, and said:
"I will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if Ralphie tugged at it,
and it fell--would that be breaking my promise?"

Greta saw what was in her heart.

"I'm afraid it would, dear," she said; but there was a tremor in her
voice.

Mercy sighed audibly.

"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be
angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they
would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'"

"Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion.

Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause.

"I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not
think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my
Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me."

As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's
lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a
limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that
somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss--dat," many times
repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its
diminutive finger-nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand.

"He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta, "but bless
the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand."

"Puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's
sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne
yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her
child's hand went to her heart like a stab.

"Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow."

"Go-on," echoed the little chap, and p