Carley went. She found indeed a
country village, and on the outskirts of it a little cottage that must have
been pretty in summer, when the green was on vines and trees. Her old
schoolmate was rosy, plump, bright-eyed, and happy. She saw in Carley no
change--a fact that somehow rebounded sweetly on Carley's consciousness.
Elsie prattled of herself and her husband and how they had worked to earn
this little home, and then the baby.
When Carley saw the adorable dark-eyed, pink-toed, curly-fisted baby she
understood Elsie's happiness and reveled in it. When she felt the soft,
warm, living little body in her arms, against her breast, then she absorbed
some incalculable and mysterious strength. What were the trivial, sordid,
and selfish feelings that kept her in tumult compared to this welling
emotion? Had she the secret in her arms? Babies and Carley had never become
closely acquainted in those infrequent meetings that were usually the
result of chance. But Elsie's baby nestled to her breast and cooed to her
and clung to her finger. When at length the youngster was laid in his crib
it seemed to Carley that the fragrance and the soul of him remained with
her.
"A real American boy!" she murmured.
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