"These things—is it safe to undo them?" he asked, fumbling with safety-pins.
"Yes, that's all right," laughed Kyllikki, loosening her own cloak.
Olof had taken off the outer wrappings. He lifted the little arms, held the boy upright, looking at him critically, like a doctor examining recruits. "Long in the limbs—and sound enough, by the look of him!" Then he gazed earnestly into the child's face, with its wise, bright eyes, and seemed to find something there that promised well for the future.
"Dear little rascal!" he cried ecstatically, and tenderly he kissed the child's forehead. The boy made no sound, but seemed to be observing the pair.
Olof laid him down in the cradle. "Can't he say anything? Can't you laugh, little son?"
He blinked his eyes, smacked his lips, and uttered a little whistling sound as if calling some shy bird—he had never seen anything like it; it seemed to come of itself.
"Laughing—he's laughing … that's the way!"
Kyllikki was standing behind him, leaning against the sofa, watching them both.
"And his hands! Sturdy hands to drain a marsh! So mother was right, was she? Ey, such a little fist! A real marsh-mole!" And he kissed the tiny hands delightedly.
"But look at his nails—they want cutting already. Ah, yes, mother knew father would like to do it himself, so she did."