nds babies of all sorts."
"Did he send me?"
"Of course."
"That's a good one on you, Harry. My father found me in a hollow tree."
"But don't you think God had something to do with it?"
Jimmy pondered this.
"I suppose," he reflected, "God sent Daddy to find me so that I would be
his little boy. You never happened to see any babies when you were out
walking, did you, Harry?"
"Not in stumps--but I probably wasn't looking."
Jimmy eyed her with sympathy.
"You may some day. Would you like to have one?"
"Very much," said Harmony, and flushed delightfully.
Jimmy was disposed to press the matter, to urge immediate maternity on
her.
"You could lay it here on the bed," he offered, "and I'd watch it. When
they yell you let 'em suck your finger. I knew a woman once that had a
baby and she did that. And it could watch Isabella." Isabella was the
mother mouse. "And when I'm better I could take it walking."
"That," said Harmony gravely, "is mighty fine of you, Jimmy boy. I--I'll
think about it." She never denied Jimmy anything, so now she temporized.
"I'll ask Peter."
Harmony had a half-hysterical moment; then:
"Wouldn't it be better," she asked, "to keep anything of that sort a
secret? And to surprise Peter?"
The boy loved a secret. He played with it in lieu of other occupation.
His uncertain future was sown thick with secrets that would never flower
into reality. Thus Peter had shamelessly promised him a visit to the
circus when he was able to go, Harmony not to be told until the tickets
were bought. Anna had similarly promised to send him from America a
pitcher's glove and a baseball bat. To this list of futurities he now
added Harmony's baby.
Harmony brought in her violin and played softly to him, not to disturb
the sleeping mice. She sang, too, a verse that the Big Soprano had been
fond of and that Jimmy loved. Not much of a voice was Harmony's, but
sweet and low and very true, as became her violinist's ear.
"Ah, well! For us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes,"
she sang, her clear eyes luminous.
"And in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!"
Mrs. Boyer mounted the stairs. She was in a very bad humor. She had
snagged her skirt on a nail in the old gate, and although that very
morning she had detested the suit, her round of shopping had again
endeared it to her. She told the Portier in English what she thought
of him, and climbe
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