It was Constance who was forced to comfort.
“Don't say that, dear,” she urged gently. “I don't understand why we couldn't keep her, but I know that God is good. And we'd rather have her this way than never to have held our own little baby——”
But here she broke down and wept convulsively over the tiny crib.
And Steve and Nannie wept as they went homeward together hand in hand.
There is another baby there now—a jolly, roystering little fellow, just one year old to-day, on his mother's birthday, and a very precious little man he is; but the dear little girl who just alighted in their arms long enough to lay hold upon their heartstrings and then flew away with the other angels is not forgotten.
Randolph stepped over to Steve's desk this morning to ask if he and Nannie would be sure to come in the evening to celebrate the double birthday.
“If it's at all clear we will, old man, and gladly,” said Steve, “but it looks to me as if a big storm were brewing.”
“Well, I hope you can come. We think a deal of these anniversaries. Each one of 'em marks off a happy year, I tell you, old man.”
“No doubt,” said Steve gently.
“And the years have been successful, too,” continued Randolph. “On the whole—to speak between friends—I've managed pretty well, I think.”