and so sweet. He hardly saw the child, though he went
through all the antics that politeness required, making inarticulate
admiring noises which the mother expected and snapped up like a bird.
He saw only her happy face, her lovely smiling eyes, and heard her
charming childish laughter. How good it is to see anyone so happy! All
the things that he had come prepared to say to her went clean out of
his head--all useless and out of place. The only thing necessary was
to gaze on the infant wonder, and share the delight of the hen over
her chick, joining in her delicious cluck of innocent vanity.

The shadow of the war, however, did pass before his eyes for a moment,
the thought of the brutal, useless carnage, the dead son, the missing
husband; and as he bent over the child he could not help thinking with
a sad smile:

"Why bring children into the world, if it is to butcher them like
this? I wonder what will happen to this poor little chap twenty years
hence?"

Thoughts like these did not trouble the mother. They could not dim her
sunshine. All cares seemed far away. She could see nothing but the
"joy that a man was born into the world."

This man-child is to each mother in turn the incarnation of all the
hope of humanity. The sadness and folly of the present day, what do
they matter? It is _he_ perhaps who will put an end to them. He is for
every mother the miracle, the promised Messiah!...

Just as he was going, Clerambault ventured a word of sympathy as to
her husband. She sighed deeply:

"Poor Armand! I'm sure that he was taken prisoner."

"Have you had any news?" asked Clerambault.

"No, no, but it is more than probable.... I am almost certain. If not,
you know, I should have heard...."

She seemed to brush away the disagreeable thought, as if it were a
fly. (Go away! How did it get in here?)

Then she added, the smile coming back into her eyes:

"It will be much better for him, he can rest. I am easier about him
there, than when he was in the trenches...." And then, her mind
springing back to her world's wonder:

"Won't he be glad when he sees the treasure the good God has sent
me?"...

It was when Clerambault stood up to go that she condescended to
remember that there were sorrows still in the world. She thought of
Maxime's death, and did drop a word of pretty sympathy. But how clear
it was that at bottom she was completely indifferent! Absolutely so
... though full of good-will, which was something