Her
hand lay in his, and it tightened there. He opened his eyes and looked up
into hers.
"All so strange," he muttered, "life." There was a sharp contracting of her
wide and sensitive mouth.
"Yes, dear, strange!" she whispered.
"But I'm so glad you're going on." He frowned as he tried to be simple and
clear, and make her feel he understood what she had set herself to do. "All
people," he said slowly, "never counted so much as now. And never so
hungry--all--as now--for all of life--like children--children who should go
to school. Your work will grow--I can see ahead. Never a time when every
man and woman and child could grow so much--and hand it on--and hand it
on--as you will do to your small son."
He felt her hand on his forehead, and for some moments nothing was said.
Vaguely in glimpses Roger saw his small grandson growing up; and he
pictured other children here, not her own but of her greater family, as the
two merged into one. He felt that she would not grow old. Children, lives
of children; work, dreams and aspirations. How bright it seemed as he
stared ahead. Then he heard the cry of her baby.
"Shall I nurse him here?" he heard her ask. He pressed her hand in answer.
And when again he opened his eyes she was by his side with the child at her
breast. Its large round eyes, so pure and clear, gazed into his own for a
long, long time.
"Now he's so sleepy," she whispered.
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