There for a minute she perched in rich content. Then she rose.
"Come very quietly with me, Bill," she whispered, with a fine air of
mystery. "I want to show you something."
"Sure! What is it?" he asked.
"Come and see," she smiled, and took up the lamp. Bill followed
obediently.
Close up beside her bed stood a small, square crib. Hazel set the lamp
on a table, and turning to the bundle of blankets which filled this new
piece of furniture, drew back one corner, revealing a round,
puckered-up infant face.
"For the love of Mike!" Bill muttered. "Is it--is it--"
"It's our son," she whispered proudly. "Born the tenth of
January--three weeks ago to-day. Don't, don't--you great bear--you'll
wake him."
For Bill was bending down to peer at the tiny morsel of humanity, with
a strange, abashed smile on his face, his big, clumsy fingers touching
the soft, pink cheeks. And when he stood up he drew a long breath, and
laid one arm across her shoulders.
"Us two and the kid," he said whimsically. "It should be the hardest
combination in the world to bust. Are you happy, little person?"
She nodded, clinging to him, wordlessly happy. And presently she
covered the baby's face, and they went back to sit before the great
fireplace, where the kettle bubbled cheerfully and the crackling blaze
sent forth its challenge to the bevy of frost sprites that held high
revel outside.
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