But finally, as was always the case, she did swallow, with a great surge of relief. A little later, seated on her father's knee and plucking at his tie in a futile fashion that he loved, she asked him:
"Daddy—about mother—"
They seldom talked of her, but always during these rare moments a beautiful mood shaped itself between them. It was as if the mere breath of his daughter's sweetly lipped use of "mother" swayed the bitter-sweet memory of the woman he carried so faithfully in the cradle of his heart.
"Yes, baby—about mother?"
"Daddy"—still fingering at the tie—"was mother—was everything all right with her up—to the very—end? I mean—no nerv—no pain? Just all of a sudden the end—quietly. Or have you told me that just to—spare me?"
She could feel him stiffen, but when his voice came it was even.
"Why, Ann, what a—question! Haven't I told you so often how mother just peacefully passed on, holding a little pink you."
Sweet-Beautiful—his heart was tolling through a sense of panic—Sweet-Beautiful.
"I know, daddy, but before—wasn't there any nerv—any sickness?"
"No," he said, rather harshly for him. "No. No. What put such ideas into your head?"