For a while, she kept these conjectures to herself, but the more she reasoned, the less certain she felt, and finally she concluded to consult William upon the subject. She knew he would laugh at her, and that was the reason she had not consulted him before; possibly his ridicule might relieve her anxiety.
One morning, they all (except Clarissa, who was still confined to her bed,) sat watching Dinah wash and dress the baby. Augustus was now always up and present at that occasion, causing Dinah no end of trouble and annoyance by his countless questions and absurd directions. He seemed to think the babe was his particular charge, and suffered keen jealousy if he were not allowed to hold her as long as he thought the rest did. She was the one topic of interest and conversation of which he never wearied, although he tried the patience of others recounting her excellence.
This morning, he had been unusually quiet and docile, so much so, that when the baby was dressed, Dinah put her into his arms, kissed him and patted his head before she went out. To her faithful heart, he would never be anything but a baby of a larger growth. She knew something was troubling him, and thought the baby would do him good.
His father and mother were quietly watching what was to them a lovely picture, for Augustus was an unusually handsome child, and the baby gave promise of being equally attractive, even at this early stage of its development, although it must be confessed, it (of course) looked similar to other equally young babies.
For quite a time, nothing was said. The parents were filled with pride and happiness as they looked at that fair picture; those darlings were theirs; the offsprings of their love for each other. The thought caused each to seek the other's eyes. William rose to go to Clarissa, meaning to tell her how happy he was. As he passed his children he stooped to kiss them, for his heart was very warm just then.
Naturally, he kissed Augustus first and was surprised to see the boy trembling, and as he turned to look in his face, he found the child's eyes swimming in tears. He drew his arm more tightly around him and said:
"My boy, what is it that troubles you? Tell me. Let me share your grievance, or remove it."
The look that answered his loving inquiry haunted William for a long time, and he was glad that Clarissa had not seen it. It was a look of torture as keen as one might expect to see in some animal, wounded to the death, and who makes no moan while its life blood oozes away. The cause of such a look was more than he could divine. He drew both children closely to him, and spoke again:
"Augustus, tell me."