“It is the mark of his fingers. He always sleeps with his hand under his head,” observed the widow, with a vague feeling of awe. “His skin is so delicate, the touch of a rose-leaf makes it flush.”
“Pretty though, isn’t it?” said the old woman, with a sharp laugh.
“Everything about him is beautiful to me,” said the young woman, gazing fondly on the child.
“Eddie, my darling—has he slept enough?”
The little fellow, fully aroused at last from his sweet slumber, turned upon his cushion and began to rub both little fists into his eyes, while his lips parted like the sudden unfolding of a rose-bud.
“Mamma!”
The little fellow rose to a sitting posture and held out his arms.
“My darling!”
“Dear little fellow. Never mind, come to aunty,” interposed the strange woman, reaching forth her arms, that fell around the child like a pair of flails.
The boy struggled and wrung himself free from this unwelcome embrace.