CHAPTER X
Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. "He has been wishing for you. A night has done even more than the doctor expected."
"Has he been quiet?"
"Most of the time; but just before you came he was a wee bit naughty. Now he's going to be the best boy in the world."
Reginald stretched out his hands. "I wanted mother dear," he sweetly confessed. "I cried just one minute."
"But you must not cry at all," Isabel told him. "If you cry you may not get well enough to start for California."
The topic of travel was absorbing and soothing. Reginald lay quiet while his mother romanced of trains and engines and long dark tunnels. Genius for operating railroads had brought the boy's father to the top with several millions; the son would doubtless make good in the same way.
To-day Reginald clasped a toy locomotive in his baby hand. Interest in play was returning. "My ningin's all weddy for California," he exulted. "To-morrow I'm doing to div you a ticket."
"How kind," said his mother.