"In that case it is possible, mind you I only say possible, that he has inherited a—a nervous tendency."
"Inherited, ah, I knew. There was something in me that warned me steadily not to go back to him. Something that made me shudder to think of it. But at last I gave in, because everyone in the world seemed in a conspiracy to make me."
"Yes," the doctor answered drily, "we run into such histories frequently."
"But," she pleaded suppliantly, as if he had the power to do or undo, "surely my baby can grow out of this—nervous tendency. Tell me he can grow out of it. With the right care and training, surely he can grow out of it."
He placed his hand on her shoulder, and honesty seemed to her to be patent and apparent in his voice. "Yes," he said, "it is possible, it is probable. I have seen many a mother make her child over with love."
"Ah, that's all I want," she gave a happy little sigh, "for I can do what they have done."
There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Talbot opened it and Father Hervey came in. "Oh," she said, "Father, the baby's well again. I shouldn't have bothered you."
"I'm glad for once it's an occasion for rejoicing," he said quietly. "Good morning, doctor."
"Good morning, Father. Was the poor fellow long after I left?"
"About half an hour."