And he hurried to Kyllikki's work-basket, and took out a small pair of scissors. "Father'll manage it—come!"
And he fell on his knees beside the bed.
"Don't be afraid—softly, softly—there! Father's hands are none so hard, for all he's so big." He cut the nails, kissing the little fingers in between. The boy laughed. Kyllikki leaned over towards them, smiling more warmly still.
"There—now it's done! Look at him, Kyllikki! Isn't he splendid?" And he turned towards her. "But what—what am I thinking of all the time! Kyllikki, I haven't even kissed you yet. Welcome, dear, welcome a thousand times!"
He took her in his arms. "How well you look—and lovely! Why, you look younger than ever! Little mother—how shall I ever thank you for—this!"
"It was your gift to me," said Kyllikki softly, with a tender glance at the little bed.
Olof led her to a seat, and they talked together in the silent speech of the eyes that is for great moments only.
* * * * *
"Why…!" Olof sprang up suddenly. "I'm forgetting everything to-day.
Here I've made coffee all ready, and now…."
He lifted the coffee-pot and set it on the tray.