placed in Nancy's keeping, rather than worry about it as she
worried about Junior, she would have flung it gaily into the East
River. But she could not dispose of the baby; her greatest horror
was the thought of ever separating from him, the fear that some
day Bert might want to send him, the darling, innocent thing, at
fourteen, to boarding-school, or that there might be a war, and
Junior might enlist!

She showed him to visiting friends in silence. When Nancy had led
them in to the bedroom, and raised a shade so that the tempered
sun light revealed the fuzzy head and shut eyes and rotund linen-
swathed form of Junior, she felt that words were unnecessary. She
never really saw the baby's face, she saw something idealized,
haloed, angelic. In later year she used to say that none of the
hundreds of snapshots Bert took of him really did the child
justice. Junior had been the most exquisitely beautiful baby that
any one ever saw, everyone said so.

When Bert got home at night, she usually had a request to make of
him. Would he just LOOK at Junior? No, he was all RIGHT, only he
had hardly wanted his three o'clock nursing, and he was sleeping
so HARD--

And at this point, if she was tired--and she was always tired!--
Nancy would break into tears. "Bert--hadn't we better ask Colver
to come and see him?" she would stammer, eagerly.

Ten minutes later she would be laughing, as she served Bert his
dinner. Of course he was all right, only, being alone with him all
day, she got to worrying. And she was tired.