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“Couldn’t you–could you jest wait till he sees Danny?” she faltered.

Mary ran down the remaining steps and laid her white hand on Shandon’s.

“If it was ten weddings, we’d wait, Shandon!” said she, her voice thrilling with the fellowship of wifehood and motherhood to come. “Don’t worry, Shandon. Arnold will fix him. Poor little Danny!” said Mary, bending over him. “He’s not awful sick, is he, Arnold? Mother,” she said, turning, royally flushed, to her stupefied mother, “every one’ll have to wait. Johnnie and Arnold are going to fix up Shandon’s baby.”

“I don’t see the slightest need of traipsing over to the hotel,” said Mrs. Dickey, almost offended, as at a slight upon her hospitality. “Take him right up to the spare room, Arnold. There ain’t no noise there, it’s in the wing. And one of you chil’ren run and tell Aggie we want hot water, and–what else? Well, go ahead and tell her that, anyway.”

“Leave me carry him up,” said one big, gentle father, who had tucked his own baby up only an hour ago. “I’ve got a kimmoner in my bag,” old Mrs. Lowell said to Shandon. “It’s a-plenty big enough for you. You git dry and comfortable before you hold him.” “Shucks! Lloydy ate a green cherry when he wasn’t but four months old,” said one consoling voice to Shandon. “He’s got a lot of fight in him,” said another. “My Olive got an inch screw in her throat,” contributed a third. Mrs. Larabee said in a low tone, with her hand tight upon Shandon’s shaking one, “He’ll be jest about fagged out when the doctor’s done with him, dearie, and as hungry as a hunter. Don’t YOU git excited, or he’ll be sick all over again.”

Crowding solicitously about her, the women got her upstairs and into dry clothing. This was barely accomplished when Mary Dickey came into the room, in a little blue cotton gown, to take her to Danny.

“Arnold says he’s got him crying, and that’s a good sign, Shandon,” said Mary. “And he says that rough walk pro’bly saved him.”

Shandon tried to speak again, but failed again, and the two girls went out together. Mary presently came back alone, and the lessened but not uncheerful group downstairs settled down to a vigil. Various reports drifted from the sick-room, but it was almost midnight before Mrs. Larabee came down with definite news.

“How is he?” echoed Johnnie, sinking into a chair. “Give me a cup of that coffee, Mary. That’s a good girl. Well, say, it looks like you can’t kill no Deaneville child with mushrooms. He’s asleep now. But say, he was a pretty sick kid! Doc’ looks like something the cat brought home, and I’m about dead, but Danny seems to feel real chipper. And EAT! And of course that poor girl looks like she’d inherited the earth, as the Scriptures say. The ice is what you might call broken between the whole crowd of us and Shandon Waters. She’s sitting there holding Danny and smiling softly at any one who peeks in!” And, her voice thickening suddenly with tears on the last words, Mrs. Larabee burst out crying and fumbled in her unaccustomed grandeur for a handkerchief.

Mary Dickey and Arnold Lowell were married just twenty-four hours later than they had planned, the guests laughing joyously at the wilted decorations and stale sandwiches. After the ceremony the bride and bridegroom went softly up stairs, and the doctor had a last approving look at the convalescent Danny.

Mary, almost oppressed by the sense of her own blessedness on this day of good wishes and affectionate demonstration, would have gently detached her husband’s arm from her waist as they went to the door, that Shandon might not be reminded of her own loss and aloneness.

But the doctor, glancing back, knew that in Shandon’s thoughts to-day there was no room for sorrow. Her whole body was curved about the child as he lay in her lap, and her adoring look was intent upon him. Danny was smiling up at his mother in a blissful interval, his soft little hand lying upon her contented heart.