“But its clothes,” she said, “they’re old, and faded, and just a little smelly. Norman, we shall dress her like a princess—what’s her name?”
Alas! he had forgotten to inquire.
“Never mind, dear,” she said consolingly. “It doesn’t matter. I’d like to name her myself. You say she’s Syrian. She shall be Cyria, spelt with a ‘C’ instead of an ‘S’—C-y-r-i-a—isn’t that pretty?”
He acknowledged that it was.
“Now, tell me all about the mother,” she said, “but first drag that little rocking-chair near the fire, so I can rock her.”
It was hard for Mr. Bonstone to describe the intensely painful scene with the mother, but he did so manfully.
“Norman,” she screamed, “you didn’t take this baby from a dying woman!”
“You said you wanted it to-night,” he replied bluntly.
“Isn’t that like a man,” she said tragically. “Take it back,” and she held it out to him.
“You don’t understand,” he replied. “I offered to leave it. The mother kissed your face in the photograph, and refused to have me keep the baby from you. I think she was afraid something might happen after she died to prevent your getting it.”