The anger fled from the girl's face, and a queer
choking came to her throat so that her words were faint and broken.
"Madam--I beg pardon--I'm sorry, but I must put Master Philip back on
his bed."
"But he isn't asleep yet," demurred Madam Wetherby softly, her eyes
mutinous.
"But you must--I can't--that is, Master Philip cannot be rocked,"
faltered the girl.
"Nonsense, my dear!" she said; "babies can always be rocked!" And again
the lullaby rose on the air.
"But, madam," persisted the girl--she was almost crying now--"don't you
see? I must put Master Philip back. It is Mrs. Wetherby's orders. They--
they don't rock babies so much now."
For an instant fierce rebellion spoke through flashing eyes, stern-set
lips, and tightly clutched fingers; then all the light died from the
thin old face and the tense muscles relaxed.
"You may put the baby back," said Madam Wetherby tremulously, yet with a
sudden dignity that set the maid to curtsying. "I--I should not want to
cross my daughter's wishes."
Nancy Wetherby never rocked her grandson again, but for days she haunted
the nursery, happy if she could but tie the baby's moccasins or hold his
brush or powder-puff; yet a week had scarcely passed when John's wife
said to her:
"Mother, dear, I wouldn't tire myself so trotting upstairs each day to
the nursery.
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