She had a fit of the blues
that night. Allan was called out on a case, and a little while later Roger
found his daughter alone in the living room, a book unopened in her lap,
her gray eyes glistening with tears. She smiled when she caught sight of
him.
"It's so silly!" she muttered unsteadily. "Just my condition, I suppose. I
feel as though I had done with school for the remainder of my days!...
Better leave me now, dearie," she added. "I'm not very proud of myself
to-night--but I'll be all right in the morning."
The next day she was herself again, and went quietly on with her
preparations for the coming of her child. But still the ceaseless interests
of those hordes of other children followed her into the house. Not only her
successor but principals and teachers came for counsel or assistance. And
later, when reluctantly she refused to see such visitors, still the
telephone kept ringing and letters poured in by every mail. For in her
larger family there were weddings, births and deaths, and the endless
savage struggle for life; and there were many climaxes of dreams and
aspirations, of loves and bitter jealousies. And out of all this straining
and this fever of humanity, came messages to Deborah: last appeals for aid
and advice, and gifts for the child who was to be born; tiny garments
quaintly made by women and girls from Italy, from Russia and from Poland;
baby blankets, wraps and toys and curious charms and amulets.
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