And then Dr. Grey came in, very much agitated; he had met the doctor
in the street and been told glad tidings. She had to compel herself into
sudden quietness, for her husband's sake, which, indeed, was a lesson
now daily being learned, and growing every day sweeter in the
learning.

"Christian," he said, when they had talked it all over, and settled when
and where Arthur was first to go out of doors, with various other matter
of fact things which she thought would soonest calm the father's
emotion--"Christian, Dr. Anstruther tells me my boy could not have
lived but for you and your care. I shall ever remember this--ever feel
grateful."

A pang, the full meaning of which she then did not in the least
understand, shot through Christian's heart. "You should not feel
grateful to his _mother._"

"Do you mean, really, that you love him like--like a mother?"

"Of course I do."

Dr. Grey said nothing more, but his wife felt him put his arm round her.
She leaned her head against him and, though she still wept--for the
tears, once unsealed, seemed painfully quick to rise--still she was
contented and at rest. Worn and weary a little, now the suspense was
over the reaction came, but very peaceful. Unconsciously there ran
through her mind one of the foolish bits of poetry she had been fond of
when a girl: