His face twisted painfully.
"I looked out for her well, didn't I?" he said coldly, "I was a 'good provider,' as they say up there, wasn't I? Do you think—" his voice rang harshly and he struck the table by his side till it rattled on its unsteady legs—"do you think if I couldn't look out for her, I would look out for that? Get it ready."
The woman rose, her lips pressed together, and rolled the blankets tightly about the quiet child. With one gesture she put on a shabby hat and pinned it to her hair.
"I'll leave the bottle with you," she said to Caroline; "it'll help keep him quiet, when I'm gone. Come on."
The man turned away his head as they passed him. At the outer door she paused a moment, and her face softened.
"I know how you feel, Mr. Williston, and I don't judge you," she said gently, "for the Lord knows you've had more than your share of trouble. But won't you kiss it once before—before it's too late? It's your child, you know. Don't you feel—"
"I feel one thing," he cried out, and the bitterness of his voice frightened Caroline; "I feel that it murdered her! Take it away!"
The woman sobbed once or twice on the stairs, but Caroline patted the flannel bundle excitedly.
They had rounded the corner in a moment, and the woman pointed ahead with her free hand.