Below, in a delicate writing, traced by a hand that trembled:
To my Baby Boy from his Mother
"I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not."
She looked at it in silence. How much had this book meant during all these years, to the "Baby Boy"? Had the book in his pocket, and the prayers hovering about him, something to do with the fact that he was still—just Little Boy Blue?
The Boy had taken a fountain pen from his pocket, and was shaking it vigorously over the grass.
Now he passed it to her.
"Write your dear name beneath," he said.
Infinitely touched, she made no comment, raised no question. She took the pen, and wrote just "Christobel."
"And the evening and the morning were the fourth day."