“But you must--I can’t--that is, Master Philip cannot be rocked,” faltered the girl.
“Nonsense, my dear!” she said; “babies can always be rocked!” And again the lullaby rose on the air.
“But, madam,” persisted the girl--she was almost crying now--“don’t you see? I must put Master Philip back. It is Mrs. Wetherby’s orders. They-- they don’t rock babies so much now.”
For an instant fierce rebellion spoke through flashing eyes, stern-set lips, and tightly clutched fingers; then all the light died from the thin old face and the tense muscles relaxed.
“You may put the baby back,” said Madam Wetherby tremulously, yet with a sudden dignity that set the maid to curtsying. “I--I should not want to cross my daughter’s wishes.”
Nancy Wetherby never rocked her grandson again, but for days she haunted the nursery, happy if she could but tie the baby’s moccasins or hold his brush or powder-puff; yet a week had scarcely passed when John’s wife said to her:
“Mother, dear, I wouldn’t tire myself so trotting upstairs each day to the nursery. There isn’t a bit of need--Mary and Betty can manage quite well. You fatigue yourself too much!” And to the old lady’s denials John’s wife returned, with a tinge of sharpness: “But, really, mother, I’d rather you didn’t. It frets the nurses and--forgive me--but you know you will forget and talk to him in ’baby-talk’!”
The days came and the days went, and Nancy Wetherby stayed more and more closely to her rooms. She begged one day for the mending-basket, but her daughter-in-law laughed and kissed her.
“Tut, tut, mother, dear!” she remonstrated. “As if I’d have you wearing your eyes and fingers out mending a paltry pair of socks!”
“Then I--I’ll knit new ones!” cried the old lady, with sudden inspiration.