ean dotty over him.
But just the same, Saxon, honest to God, before I'd have anything happen
to you, break your little finger, even, I'd see him dead an' buried
first. That'll give you something of an idea what you mean to me.

"Why, Saxon, I had the idea that when folks got married they just
settled down, and after a while their business was to get along with
each other. Maybe it's the way it is with other people; but it ain't
that way with you an' me. I love you more 'n more every day. Right now
I love you more'n when I began talkin' to you five minutes ago. An' you
won't have to get a nurse. Doc Hentley'll come every day, an' Mary'll
come in an' do the housework, an' take care of you an' all that, just as
you'll do for her if she ever needs it."

As the days and weeks pussed, Saxon was possessed by a conscious feeling
of proud motherhood in her swelling breasts. So essentially a normal
woman was she, that motherhood was a satisfying and passionate
happiness. It was true that she had her moments of apprehension, but
they were so momentary and faint that they tended, if anything, to give
zest to her happiness.

Only one thing troubled her, and that was the puzzling and perilous
situation of labor which no one seemed to understand, her self least of
all.

"They're always talking about how much more is made by machinery than by
the old ways," she told her brother Tom. "Then, with all the machinery
we've got now, why don't we get more?"

"Now you're talkin'," he answered. "It wouldn't take you long to
understand socialism."

But Saxon had a mind to the immediate need of things.

"Tom, how long have you been a socialist?"

"Eight years."

"And you haven't got anything by it?"

"But we will... in time."

"At that rate you'll be dead first," she challenged.

Tom sighed.

"I'm afraid so. Things move so slow."

Again he sighed. She noted the weary, patient look in his face, the bent
shoulders, the labor-gnarled hands, and it all seemed to symbolize the
futility of his social creed.

CHAPTER IX

It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins. Children,
of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and Saxon, by the
open front window, was watching them and dreaming day dreams of her
child soon to be. The sunshine mellowed peacefully down, and a light
wind from the bay cooled the air and gave to it a tang of salt. One of
the children pointed up Pine Street toward Seventh. All the childr