bassinet. And she loved him; she remembered how she had loved that baby,
how, laughing at herself, she had whispered silly words over the stolid,
pink head; how the girl's heart of her had all but burst with the
astonishing new tide of a feeling which seemed the greatest of which she
was capable. Yet it was a small thing to the way she loved Brock now. A
vision came of little Hugh, three years younger, and the two toddling
about the terrace together, Hugh always Brock's satellite and adorer, as
was fitting; less sturdy, less daring than Brock, yet ready to go
anywhere if only the older baby led. She thought of the day when Hugh,
four years old, had taken fright at a black log among the bushes under
the trees.

"It's a bear!" little Hugh had whispered, shaking, and Brock, brave but
not too certain, had looked at her, inquiring.

"No, love, it's not a bear; it's an old log of wood. Go and put your
hand on it, Hughie."

Little Hugh had cried out and shrunk back. "I'm afraid!" cried little
Hugh.

And Brock, not entirely clear as to the no-bear theory, had yet bluffed
manfully. "Come on, Hughie; let's go and bang 'um," said Brock.

Which invitation Hugh accepted reluctantly with a condition, "If you'll
hold my hand, B'ocky."

The woman turned her head to see the place where the black log had lain,
there in the old high bushes. And behold! Two strong little figures in
white marched along--she could all but see them today--and the bigger