"What is it?" he whispered to the nurse who stood beside him. She held in one arm the new-born child, hooded and folded in a piece of flannel.
The nurse touched him on the shoulder. "She's trying to tell you to look at your little daughter, sir."
He turned and saw something—something queer and red between two folds of flannel, something that stirred and drew itself into puckers, and gave forth a cry.
And as he touched the child, his strength melted in him, as it melted when he laid his hands for the first time upon its mother.
CHAPTER XIX
After the birth of her child Anne was restored to her normal poise and self-possession. She appeared the large, robust, superb creature she had once been. The serenity of her bearing proclaimed that in her motherhood her nature was fulfilled. She had given herself up to the child from the first moment that she held it to her breast. She had found again her tenderness, her gladness, and her peace.
Majendie had waited for this. He believed that if the child made her so happy, she could hardly continue to cherish an aversion from its father.
In the months that followed he witnessed the slow destruction of this hope. The very fact that Anne had become "normal" made its end more certain. There were no longer any affecting moods, any divine caprices for him to look to, nor was there much likelihood of a profounder change. Such as his wife was now, she always would be.
She had settled down.