“Oh!” Jean’s voice thrilled with joy. “I knew it. I knew it. I said it could not be a girl. A boy—a son! Oh, bring him to me, nurse; bring him! I can’t wait a moment longer.”
“You have waited four days; you can wait a few more minutes. Drink your milk, and I will call your husband. Poor man, he has been so wretched! You would like to see him first.”
Nurse was masterful, and Jean was weak. She swallowed the milk, and impatiently waited for Robert’s arrival, hugging the thought of the burden in his arms. Surely he would bring him to her—the hard-won treasure, the tiny, precious son for whose sake she had gone down to the gates of death!
The door opened, and Robert entered. His face was drawn and aged, his hazel eyes haggard with suffering; but for once Jean had no thought for him—her eyes saw only his empty arms.
“Where is he?”
Robert went down on his knees by the bedside.
“Jean, darling, speak to me! I have been hungering all these days... Thank God you are better. Oh, Jean, nothing matters in all the world if I have you.”
Jean smiled, and her fingers feebly returned his caress.
“Poor lad! poor lad! You have suffered, too, but he will comfort us. Bring him to me! put him here, between us on the bed. Let us look at him together.”
“Jean, sweetheart! We have been happy together; sufficient for each other all these months. Am I not more to thee than ten sons?”