“Well?” she said.
“I guess there’s not much I can say,” he choked out.
For a long time she made no answer. Then her breath came with an unexpected gasp. “It wasn’t your fault—I made you do it.” For a moment more they were silent. Then she shifted the sleeping baby towards him.
“Don’t you want to kiss her?” she asked.
He bent his face to the child with a sudden passionate tenderness. As he looked up, his wet eyes met Charlotte’s, which were full of tears.
She put out her hand to him. “I guess I’ve been hard on you,” she said.
ELIZABETH AND DAVIE
BY MURIEL CAMPBELL DYAR
When the town doctor, coming out to Turkey Ridge, had given as his verdict that Elizabeth’s one chance of life—he could not say how slim the chance in that plain room, having within it the pleasant noise of bees and the spring sun on the floor—lay in her going to the great hospital in the city, it was Davie who fell to sobbing in his worn hands.
“I’ll jest die at home, Davie,” she said in her quiet voice.