"The baby, I--I heard him cry," she faltered.
"Yes, madam," smiled the nurse. "It is Master Philip's nap hour."
Louder and louder swelled the wails from the inner room, yet the nurse
did not stir save to reach for her thread.
"But he's crying--yet!" gasped Madam Wetherby.
The girl's lips twitched and an expression came to her face which the
little old lady did not in the least understand.
"Can't you--do something?" demanded baby's grandmother, her voice
shaking.
"No, madam. I--" began the girl, but she did not finish. The little
figure before her drew itself to the full extent of its diminutive
height.
"Well, I can," said Madam Wetherby crisply. Then she turned and hurried
into the inner room.
The nurse sat mute and motionless until a crooning lullaby and the
unmistakable tapping of rockers on a bare floor brought her to her feet
in dismay. With an angry frown she strode across the room, but she
stopped short at the sight that met her eyes.
In a low chair, her face aglow with the accumulated love of years of
baby-brooding, sat the little old lady, one knotted, wrinkled finger
tightly elapsed within a dimpled fist. The cries had dropped to sobbing
breaths, and the lullaby, feeble and quavering though it was, rose and
swelled triumphant.
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