The child was born, a boy, strong and lusty—to Jeremy the incarnation of miraculous wonder. That the thing was alive, with legs and arms and feet and hands, and could utter sounds, which it did with much vigour, made demands almost too great on his credulity.
"What is he like?" asked Barbara.
This was a poser for Jeremy. For the pink brat was like nothing on earth—save any other newborn infant.
"I think," he said hesitatingly, "I think he may be said to resemble Cupid. He has a mouth like Cupid's bow."
"And Cupid's wings?" she laughed. "Fie, Jeremy, I thought we had born to us a Christian child."
"But that he has a body," said Jeremy, "I should say he was a cherub. He has eyes of a celestial blue, and his nose——"
"Yes, yes, his nose?" came breathlessly from Barbara.
"I'm afraid, my dear, there is so little of it to judge by," said Jeremy.
"Before the summer's out I shall be able to judge for myself," said Barbara, and terror gripped the man's heart.
The days passed, and Barbara rose from her bed and again sang and laughed.