however, he left money with
me to see that the child was properly
buried if it should die while he was
gone; and once he telegraphed to ask
how it was. He said he was sometimes
afraid to open my letters for
fear that he should read that the baby
was dead. The child knew Grayson's
voice, his step. It would go to him
from its own mother. When it was
sickest and lying torpid it would move
the instant he stepped into the room,
and, when he spoke, would hold out
its thin arms, without opening its eyes,
and for hours Grayson would walk the
floor with the troubled little baby over
his shoulder. I thought several times
it would die when, on one trip, Grayson
was away for two weeks. One
midnight, indeed, I found the mother
moaning, and three female harpies
about the cradle. The baby was dying
this time, and I ran back for a
flask of whiskey. Ten minutes late
with the whiskey that night would
have been too late. The baby got to
know me and my voice during that
fortnight, but it was still in danger
when Grayson got back, and we went
to see it together. It was very weak,