"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are."
"You will be far kinder to me some day," said Greta, very tenderly.
"No—ah, yes, I remember. How very selfish I am—I had quite forgotten. But then it is so hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, never. I'm just Ralphie's mamma. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died in some way. That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true."
"Man—go-on—batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the patter of tiny feet.
"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry, 'Oh!' You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a minute, behold! he's laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I will make up for it some day, if God is good."
"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta.
Her arms rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to these two women?
"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think Ralphie is like—anybody?"
"Yes, dear, he is like you."
There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes and plucked at Greta's gown.