“Keep fighting,” he said deep in his throat.
And again I soared away with the baby up to where God was there to help us.
Then suddenly we both were brought back to earth by my feeling him stir, and huddle closer to my breast, while the limp little knees found strength to press themselves in against the ribs over my heart.
“Oh!” I sobbed with a quick breath.
The mother moaned, and Gabriel steadied us both closer. He thought the baby was dead, I knew.
“Want to give him to me?” he asked gently.
“No, I don’t,” I answered jerkily enough to sound like a snap; “but wipe the perspiration out of my eyes. He’s getting hot now, and I’m melting, but I don’t dare stop hugging and patting. Make his mother understand he’s getting all right.”
But nobody has to make a mother understand when her baby is saved. The poor creature just gave one pitiful gasp, and went to nice, comfortable crying instead of moaning. It was lovely to hear hearty boohoos, though she never said a word except to ask Stivers for her snuff-stick, which he attentively swabbed in the can before he handed it to her.
“You can’t go on walking and joggling forever; sit down and rock and rest with him,” suggested Gabriel, timidly and respectfully, after he had passed a nice, cool, linen handkerchief all over my hot face for me, even with intelligence enough to wipe in the hollow under my chin.
“Not now; he’s squirming deliciously, and I don’t dare. Suppose he should go limp again,” I answered fearfully.