“The little hand!” she whispered like a slow caress, “It ’s warm, Hugh!” She lifted her eyes to his face.
“Aye—warm.” There was no light in the stern face. “Ye best put her in bed.” He held her out—a little from him—and the child stirred. Her sleepy eyes opened and smiled to them and closed slowly. The little smile faded to a dream and the lips groped with words and breathed a name softly—“Cin-na-mon—”
The grandmother gave a startled glance. “She is fey!” she said.
“‘Cinnamon!—’ what does she mean—‘Cinnamon’?”
The old man looked resentful and said nothing.
The sleepy lips shaped themselves again—“Gran-nie.” It slipped into a little sigh of content as she nestled into the arms that reached out to her.
The old woman smoothed the tumbled hair and rocked her shoulders gently to the cradling of her arms. “Where was she, Hugh?—Where did ye find her!”
“Where she ’d no right to he,” he said grimly.
“She’d no right but to be in her bed,” said the grandmother softly.
“Ye ’d best put her there,” he responded, looking down at the sleeping flower-face with unfathomable eyes.