“O Anna, let me take him in my arms,” she entreated in a voice Anna had never heard before. Surprised and delighted, and without for the moment considering the significance of it, the girl rose quickly to put the baby into the outstretched arms.
But for the first time Joe, Junior, who went mournfully wherever he was placed, indifferent to all but Anna, resisted—resisted convulsively. Springing back with a strength he had not seemed to possess, he clung to Anna with a grasp that was painful in its intensity. Then as Mrs. Langley’s hand fell gently upon his shoulder, he uttered a piercing cry—such a shriek as had never before echoed within the parsonage walls. His arms tight about Anna’s neck, clutching like a frightened wild animal, Joe, Junior, continued to shriek and without pause.
Never before since Anna had known him had the baby uttered a sound above a mere whimper. The girl’s blood congealed for terror. As he continued to scream in a manner that seemed to stop her heart and paralyze her muscles, she stood motionless for a few seconds. Recovering herself, she fled wildly from the room.
She never knew when the baby stopped screaming. Snatching his wraps, in some manner she got him into them, and careless of her own, rushed out of the house and through the gate, flying along the village street in the direction of the Hollow and home. And before the minister, who was in the garret, happily occupied in searching for toys or something that might take the place of toys, had located the strange sound or realised what it meant, Anna Miller and Joe, Junior, were out of sight.
CHAPTER XIV
MR. LANGLEY, Mrs. Lorraine and Seth Miller had been severally perturbed at about the same period over a matter which might or might not have had a common occasion. But the excitement of the following week centering about little Joe quite drove other affairs from the minds of the first and last mentioned and caused even Mrs. Lorraine’s anxiety over her daughter to be relieved because of the constant demand upon her attention and sympathies. She enquired for the lost key early in the week, and Alice quietly gave it into her hands. As she took it, it seemed as if she remembered another, and that the two were on a ring or tag; but she forebore to question. Neither did she bring up the matter of giving up the cottage. After all, they had made no definite decision and might as well keep the house until after Christmas. She wasn’t sure, if Alice remained in this strange and difficult condition, that they ought to remain longer with Miss Penny. But she said nothing of this nor of anything to Alice, hoping that the girl would come to her. But Alice, though she was less nervous and was not out so late, kept her own counsel and her habit of solitary rambles.
But one night when they sat at tea, Miss Penny suddenly turned to Alice and asked if she had found the key. Alice assented, changing the subject so quickly that her mother was vexed.
“That reminds me, Alice, I thought there were two keys when they were given to us,” she said.
“I believe there were. The other is down there. You don’t want both, mother?”
“O, were they duplicates, Alice?” her mother asked, for she had thought they might have opened different doors.