"No. I'll go out and find David Junior."
"Perhaps that would be better."
He went. For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead. And all she achieved was a bitter self-reproach. For the first time in all her existence.
A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window.
She rose and looked out. She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting
chummily on the lawn. Then Aunt Clara thanked God that David and
Shirley had been given a son.
"We have that much to start with—though it seems little enough just now."
She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her handkerchief.
When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to her sitting-room again.
"David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it over. I ought to blame you. But I can't. I've had all I could do blaming myself. Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?"
David shook his head wearily.
"But I am. I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I really thought— But never mind that now. Does she—that other woman know?"