She reached up and twined her arms about his neck.
"I love you very much," she returned in an earnest tone. "And I am gladder than ever to have you love me, now that grandfather has gone away. But I don't want any one else to go."
He clasped her more tightly. No, any other break in the circle would mean a more poignant grief. There was no one to spare.
"And you will not mind if we love the little boy a good deal?"
"No—since it is a little boy. I am glad it is not a girl, that you chose a boy," she made answer simply.
"We all wanted the boy. Dilly, I am glad to have you love me, and I hope it will grow stronger as you grow older, and understand how sweet affection really is."
Mr. Bradin called him away. He put Daffodil in the chair and she leaned her head down and whispered to grandfather that a little boy had come, and she was going to be glad, because they all wanted him. And then a curious thought flashed over her. Death and life are profound mysteries, even out of childhood.
"Would you like to see the baby?" asked gran'mere Bradin.
"Oh, yes."
Her mother glanced up out of fond dark eyes. Why, she was as pale as in her long sickness, but not so thin. She said, "Kiss me, Daffodil."