"My darling!"
Her arms were round Nan's shoulders; she was kneeling among the proofs.
"My little girl—Nan!"
"Mother...."
They held each other close. It was a queer moment, though not an unprecedented one in the stormy history of their relations together. A queer, strange, comforting, healing moment, the fleeting shadow of a great rock in a barren land; a strayed fragment of something which should have been between them always but was not. Certainly an odd moment.
"My own baby.... You're unhappy...."
"Unhappy—yes.... Darling mother, it can't be helped. Nothing can be helped.... Don't let's talk ... darling."
Strange words from Nan. Strange for Mrs. Hilary to feel her hand held against Nan's wet cheek and kissed.
Strange moment: and it could not last. The crying child wants its mother; the mother wants to comfort the crying child. A good bridge, but one inadequate for the strain of daily traffic. The child, having dried its tears, watches the bridge break again, and thinks it a pity but inevitable. The mother, less philosophic, may cry in her turn, thinking perhaps that the bridge may be built this time in that way; but, the child having the colder heart, it seldom is.
There remain the moments, impotent but indestructible.