Isa was sitting opposite the door leading into the living room, and her eyes fell, as Joyce spoke, upon the Madonna and Child.
Then, in spite of her anxiety and weariness, Isa laughed. The entire train of events since her arrival the day before had appealed to her latent sense of humour.
"Oh! exactly," she answered and rolling the baby in a blanket she strode over to the bed, and placed him hastily beside Joyce.
"There," she said soothingly; "now lay still or you'll hurt the little beauty. I'm going to fix something comforting to drink."
She was gone. In the mystery of the still room and the early morning, Joyce was alone with her little son!
As she felt, so all motherhood, as God designed it, should feel. Before the acceptance of the wonderful gift, motherhood stood entranced. Fear and awe hold even love in abeyance. Into poor, loving, human hands a soul—an eternal soul—was entrusted. No wonder even mother-love held back before it consecrated itself to the sacred and everlasting responsibility.
Joyce only dumbly felt this. All that she was conscious of was a fear that her joy, when she looked upon the blessed little face, would kill her, and so end what had but begun.
A new and marvellous strength came to her. She raised herself upon her elbow and reverently drew the corner of the blanket from the tiny head.
Suddenly the birds ceased singing. The June morning was enveloped in a black pall. The ominous stillness that precedes an outburst of the elements held breath in check.
Joyce was perfectly conscious. In the hideous blackness she saw her baby's face clear and distinct, and with firm fingers she tore the wrappings from the small body—she must see all, all.