She stood with her eyes riveted on the figure at the table.
And yet, after all the passionate feeling of the night, when morning came they met—outwardly, at least—with the usual cool indifference in their bearing towards each other. At breakfast Toddlelums was with them in his white pinafore, seated on a high chair which was drawn up very close to the table.
"Mammie," he said, "may nurse take me down to the river to play with Frankie Darrel this afternoon? We want to swim our boats."
"Yes, dear, but you must swim them in the shallow part."
"And don't get too near the edge, old chap. Remember, if you roll in, daddy won't be there to fetch you out, and you'll be gobbled up by the little fishes."
Toddlelums was looking at his father with great, round eyes. "Gobbled up by the little fishes?" he echoed; but his father did not hear, for he was saying in an undertone to his wife, "Tell nurse to be careful; the river is swollen after the rain."
Afternoon came, and off went Toddlelums, carrying in his arms a boat with big, white sails, while the young mother threw kisses to him as she drove away in the carriage.
Ah, little Toddlelums, go your way, sail your small craft! Unconsciously, you will guide it through the deep waters, but the land will be reached at last!
It was evening, and Grace Millroe, entering the hall on her return from her drive, found her husband standing at the foot of the stairs apparently waiting for her, with a look on his face which she had never seen there before. He made no movement, one hand clutched the balustrade with a tight grip, and twice his drawn lips opened to say words which refused to come. She rushed to his side—she clung to his arm, while the fair face, working with some wild, fearful emotion, looked imploringly into his. "Edgar, what is it? What is the matter?"