ointed out at the window.

"The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta.

"He means the horse," explained Mercy.

"Go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's
indifference to all conversation except his own.

"Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta.

Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand.

"Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter."

"Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the
ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed
himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then
the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the
door to the kitchen.

"What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him, too,"
said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added softly, "his hands and his
eyes and his feet and his soft hair."

"Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you
may get up this afternoon--only perhaps, you know, but we'll see."

"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are."

"You will be far kinder to me some day," said Greta, very tenderly.

"No--ah, yes, I remember. How very selfish I am--I had quite forgotten.
But then it is so hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. Only
fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, never. I'm just
Ralphie's mamma. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died in some way.
That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true."

"Man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the
patter of tiny feet.

"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry, 'Oh!'
You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a
minute, behold! he's laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I
will make up for it some day, if God is good."

"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta.

Her arms rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her
eyes swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to
these two women?

"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think
Ralphie is like--anybody?"

"Yes, dear, he is like you."

There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes
and plucked at Greta's gown.

"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father
knows who it is?"

"I can not say--we have never told him."

"Nor I--he never asked,