"The house is about finished," Gaston replied, tuning up the fiddle. "And then what?" he said, placing the instrument.
"I wonder?" Joyce looked down happily upon her child.
It did not greatly matter, for now Gaston had struck into one of those compelling airs, so intensely sweet and melodious that it all but hurt; and the red sunset trembled as the tear-dimmed eyes beheld it.
The tune changed. It danced elfishly, and trippingly—for very joy it made one laugh. The tear rolled down Joyce's face, as the smile replaced it, and dropped upon the thin cheek of the baby. He did not flinch, and the staring eyes did not falter, but something drew the mother's attention. As the final tripping notes died away, she said softly.
"Mr. Gaston, just look—at the baby."
The child had rarely drawn them together. It was to make her forget the child—and other things—that Gaston called so often.
He came now, and bent over the two.
"Does—he—look—just the same to you?" she asked.
"Why, yes!" Gaston repressed the desire to laugh. "You see babies are not much in my line. I don't think I ever saw such a little fellow before. They look about the same for a long time, don't they?"
"Oh! no. They change every day, and many times during the day. I weighed baby to-day," she faltered, "and do you know, he weighs less than when he was born!"