The child was a handsome little fellow, cast in a far more masculine mould than his father, to whom he bore scarcely any resemblance.
As Lilias, in her dark grey dress, approached, she looked altogether a more sorrowful and grief-touched figure than the graceful, almost childish young widow who came to meet her.
So Carr thought, as with a softened light in his eyes he glanced at Lilias.
"A certain part of her heart was broken three years ago," he inwardly commented. "Can I—is it in my power—will it ever be in my power to comfort her?"
But Lilias, knowing nothing of these feelings, only noted the happy-looking picture.
"Here we are!" said Carr, catching the boy from his shoulder and letting him jump to the ground. "Run to your auntie now, little man."
Off waddled the small fat legs. Lilias stooped and received the somewhat dusty embrace of two rounded arms, while cherub lips were pressed on hers.
"You do comfort me, little Gerry," she gasped under her breath.
Then she rose, almost staggering under his weight.
"Let me carry him for you," said Carr, coming up to her.