She led the way into the little parlour, talking in a voice as soft and kindly as her eyes. Lucien had been out, but had just come in, she fancied, and was probably upstairs. She would go and tell him.
So, having taken him into the room, she went, leaving him alone. When she was gone, Baird stood for a moment listening to her footsteps upon the stairs. Then he crossed the room and stood before the hearth looking up at a picture which hung over the mantel.
He was still standing before it when she returned with her son. He turned slowly to confront them, holding out his hand to Latimer with something less of alert and sympathetic readiness than was usual with him. There was in his manner an element which corresponded with the lack of colour and warmth in his face.
“I’ve been looking at this portrait of your—of——” he began.
“Of Margery,” put in the little mother. “Everyone looks at Margery when they come in. It seems as if the child somehow filled the room.” And though her soft voice had a sigh in it, she did not speak in entire sadness.
John Baird looked at the picture again. It was the portrait of a slight small girl with wistful eyes and an innocent face.
“I felt sure that it was she,” he said in a lowered voice, “and you are quite right in saying that she seems to fill the room.”
The mother put her hand upon her son’s arm. He had turned his face towards the window. It seemed to Baird that her light touch was at once an appeal and a consolation.
“She filled the whole house when she was here,” she said; “and yet she was only a quiet little thing. She had a bright way with her quietness and was so happy and busy. It is my comfort now to remember that she was always happy—happy to the last, Lucien tells me.”