as the cross roads.

The blind woman was feeling carefully the downy head of the baby.

"He's as soft as a kitten," she said. "I could spare several eggs a week
out of the basket," she added, "if they'd be any use. I don't know much
about babies. My brother was bigger than me when we was at home, and, of
course, since then I've not had much to do with children."

Anne watched the two so helpless and confident. Mary rocked her knees
steadily, and the child's head lay contentedly.

"I believe you've put him to sleep," said Anne. "Shall I put him in the
cradle?"

"No, let me have him," said Mary, "I've never nursed a baby before."




CHAPTER XXI


Anne was left alone in the cottage with the baby, who slept in the
clothes-basket she had turned into a cradle. The dog slept, too, having
made friends with fortune. A late evening glow lit one side of the wall.
When it faded, the dusk would absorb all the room and its inhabitants.
Anne, sitting very still lest she should wake the baby, remembered one
by one the agonies that had been lived through, whose sole result seemed
to be this peaceful evening and the confidently breathing child. She