The child, drowsy already with the near approach of bedtime, was in her lap, and rested its head on her breast, as with her arms still round him her hands disguised the drug.
"It is a very large dose," she said dully. "I knew it must be; that's why I wanted to give it--myself. Sonny! Open your mouth, darling--it's sweet--there--swallow it quick--that's a good Sonnikins."
"You are very brave," he said with a catch in his voice.
She glanced up at him for a second with a sort of scorn in her eyes. "I knew he would take it from me," she replied, and then, shifting the child to an easier position, began to sing in a half voice:
"There is a happy land----"
"Far--farze--away," echoed Sonny contentedly. It was his usual lullaby, chosen because it resembled a native air, beloved of ayahs.
And as she sang and Sonny's eyelids drooped the man watched them both with a tender awe in his heart; and the other woman, crouching in the corner, watched all three with hungry, passionate eyes. Here, in this group of man, woman, and child, without a personal claim on each other, was something new, half incomprehensible, wholly sweet.
"He is asleep now," said Kate after a time. "You had better take him."
He stooped to obey, and she stooped also to leave a long, lingering kiss on the boy's soft cheek. It sent a thrill through the man as he recognized that in giving him the child she had given him more than kisses.
The feeling that it was so made him linger a few minutes afterward at the door with a new sense of his responsibilities toward her to say: