When the doctor arrived the convulsion had passed. Little Al was lying in his crib, asleep, breathing easily, the snarls in his nerves unravelled. Georgia explained what had happened.
"You did just the right thing," said the physician.
"Doctor," she asked slowly, "will he ever be well?"
"What do you mean by well?"
"I mean, when he grows up will he be as strong—and—and bright as other men?"
"That is impossible to answer, Mrs. Connor, without the gift of prophecy."
"Don't put me off," said she staring at him, "tell me the truth. I have a right to know."
"I should first have to have a little more definite knowledge of his antecedents, his family history. Is there anything which might explain—"
"Not on our side of the family," Mrs. Talbot interrupted quickly, "they're clean people, every one."
"His father," said Georgia, "is a drunkard and the son of a drunkard."