As I looked into Mary's eyes a sob rose in my throat. I saw the joy of motherhood there, I saw infinite tenderness, and more than tenderness. It was a joy chastened by sorrow, by loss unspeakable, by hope eternal.
"I am so glad, Mary," I said, "so glad. It is as it ought to be, isn't it?"
"Isn't he just like his father?" said the young mother proudly. "See his eyes, his chin—why, he's Hugh all over again!" Then her lips became tremulous, and tears welled up into her eyes.
"He is a beautiful boy," I said, "and—and...."
"He's made the house a new place," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "I have made Mary sleep in the next room to mine so that I can hear him when he cries in the night. It does me good to hear a baby cry. Oh, my boy, my boy!" and his voice trembled as he spoke.
I knew what he was thinking about—knew that he remembered, with a great sadness in his heart, that he had driven his only son from home; knew that he suffered unspeakable sorrow; and I could see that he was a different man.
"Isn't God good to us?" he said huskily; "and—and—Mary's forgiven me too, haven't you, my love?"
He put his arm around the young widow's waist as he spoke and kissed her.
"It's the baby who has done everything," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "The news that he was born came in the middle of the night, and when Josiah heard that both mother and child were well, he could not stay in bed; he got up and tramped around the room like a man beside himself. 'She must come home,' he said, 'home, and bring her baby with her.' Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful!"
"And you, Mary," said I, "are you well again?"