nd I'm three years
older. That's awfully young to have bred three kids and lost them._ He
took her in his arms. "I know how tough it is. It's bad enough for me,
and probably worse for you. But at least we're sure they'll never be
bomb fodder. And we still have Joanna."

* * * * *

She twisted away from him, her voice suddenly bitter. "Don't give me
that Pollyanna stuff, Jim. 'Goody, goody, only a broken leg. It might
have been your back.' There's no use trying to whitewash it. Our kids,
our _own_ kids, all gone. Dead." She began to sob. "I wish I were, too."

"Jean, Jean--"

"I don't care. I mean it. Everything bad has happened since Joanna came
to live with us."

"Darling, you can't blame the child for a series of accidents."

"I know." She raised her tear-stained face. "But after all-- Michael,
drowned. Then Steve, falling off the water tower. Now it's Marian." Her
fingers gripped his arm tightly. "Jim, each of them was playing alone
with Joanna when it happened."

"Accidents, just accidents," he said. It wasn't like Jean, this talk.
Almost-- His mind shied away from the word, and circled back. Almost
paranoid. But Jean was stable, rational, always had been. Still, maybe a
little chat with Doctor Holland would be a good idea. Breakdowns _do_
happen.

They both turned at the slamming of the screen door. Then came the
patter of childish feet on the kitchen linoleum, and Joanna burst into
the room.

"Mommy, I want to play with Marian. Why can't I play with Marian?"

Jean put her arm around the girl's thin shoulder. "Darling, you won't be
able to play with Marian for--quite a while. You mustn't worry about it
now."

"Mommy, she looked just like she was asleep, then they came and took her
away." Her lips trembled. "I'm frightened, Mommy."

* * * * *

Jim looked down at the dark eyes, misted now, the straight brown hair,
and the little snub nose with its dusting of freckles. _She's all we
have left, poor kid, and not even ours, really. Helen's baby._

He looked up as the battered cuckoo clock on the mantel clicked
warningly. "Time for little girls to be in bed, Joanna. Run along now
like a good girl, and get washed." Even as he spoke the miniature doors
flew open and the caricature of a bird popped out, shrilly announcing
the hour. It cuckooed eight times, then bounced back inside. Joanna
watched entranced.

"Bed time, darling," said Jean gent