“I think I will have to ask you to waken him,” I said.
“Is it as serious as that?” she inquired, anxiously, having sensed some of the emotion I was trying to conceal.
“It might be very serious,” I said. “I really ought to have a talk with the doctor.”
13. The nurse went out, and I drew up a chair and sat by the crib, watching the infant go back to sleep. I was glad to be alone, to have a chance to get myself together. But suddenly I heard a rustle of skirts in the doorway behind me, and turned and saw a white-clad figure; an elderly gentlewoman, slender and fragile, grey-haired and rather pale, wearing a soft dressing-gown. Aunt Varina!
I rose. “This must be Mrs. Abbott,” she said. Oh, these soft, caressing Southern voices, that cling to each syllable as a lover to a hand at parting.
She was a very prim and stately little lady, and I think she did not intend to shake hands; but I felt pretty certain that under her coating of formality, she was eager for a chance to rhapsodize. “Oh, what a lovely child!” I cried; and instantly she melted.
“You have seen our babe!” she exclaimed; and I could not help smiling. A few months ago, “the little stranger,” and now “our babe”!
She bent over the cradle, with her dear old sentimental, romantic soul in her eyes. For a minute or two she quite forgot me; then, looking up, she murmured, “It is as wonderful to me as if it were my own!”
“All of us who love Sylvia feel that,” I responded.
She rose, and suddenly remembering hospitality, asked me as to my present needs. Then she said, “I must go and see to sending some telegrams.”