The thing was coming to a climax.
She was meddling with someone’s private business, of that she was sure, both from her own reasoning and her mother’s warning, and maybe she had no right to do so, but her sweet mouth set itself into stubborn lines as she fell to smoothing the little head, damp with the ardours of its owner’s remorse.
“Stop crying, honey,” she wheedled softly, “and let Nance rock you like this.”
She tucked her heels under her thighs and, holding the child in the comfortable lap thus formed, began to sway her body back and forth for all the world as if she sat in a cushioned rocker.
What is there about a rocking woman with a child’s head on her breast to soothe the sorrows of the world?
The swaying motion soon checked Sonny’s sobs and she fell to singing to him, adding her voice to the mysterious voices of the cañon in the lilt and fall of an old camp-meeting hymn brought forth from her memories of Missouri. And presently, when its spell had soothed the tumult, she raised him up and fed him cookies made for the occasion, a sugary bribe if ever there was one.
Dirk, too, was not averse to this shameful seduction, his pale eyes glowing with desire.
“Tell me, Sonny,” said Nance, “does Brand cook for you?”
“Sure,” said the child, “sure he does—but he’s gone all day and we get awful hungry ’fore he comes at night.”
“I should think so!” thought Nance grimly, “two meals a day! When a little child should eat whenever it’s hungry, to grow! This precious Brand is about due for an investigation.”