She was awakening next morning by a cry from the baby, and she sprang up
at once, to wait on it, to adore it, to serve it in any capacity.
She hurried down stairs to the ice box to fetch the bottle she had
prepared overnight for it, warmed it, and flew up again to quiet its
hearty cries. But it stopped directly she entered the room, and lay on
her lap, swallowing the milk and staring at her, with its father’s
great, solemn blue eyes. It didn’t cry again all morning; it was a baby
of a happy and serene disposition. She put it back in its crib and it
lay there, watching its own fat hands, while she dressed Sandra. The
little girl was very quiet and docile, she fetched her own clean clothes
and stood passively to have them buttoned. Just once, while her hair was
being brushed, she looked up with her clear unfaltering gaze, and asked:
“Where’s Mother?”
“She’s gone away for a while, my darling. You’ll be happy with Aunt
Frankie, won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Sandra answered, truthfully.
It was still very early, so Frances got breakfast ready without waiting
for Mrs. Hansen. Mr. Petersen came down at seven, and he was mighty glad
to get his hot coffee. He sat down heavily opposite Frances, and drained
his cup.
“If you could stay,” he began, apologetically, “just a few days,
anyway--just a little while--till I get settled? I wasn’t--I didn’t
appreciate your goodness last night. But I do now. Just for a day or
two?”
“As long as you like,” Frances answered, heartily.