Aunt Jane shook her head reproachfully at the baby, still smiling a little. She looked significantly at Edith Dalton. "He's trying to get his thumb in," she said. "They won't let him do that in there." She nodded toward the other wing. "He kind of knows, I reckon. He knows his Aunt Jane will let him do it--if he can." She watched him happily. "There! he's done it!" The woman glanced at the baby indifferently and then at Aunt Jane's face, and the softness crept out a little. "You think a great deal of babies and children, don't you?" She said it almost jealously. "Yes, I love 'em," said Aunt Jane. She rocked happily. "You didn't ever have any children, did you?" "No." Aunt Jane's face made no comment. She rocked a minute. "I reckon women always wants children.... Every woman wants 'em--even when she doesn't know.... She wants 'em--way in back somewhere; she kind o' misses 'em." She rocked again--slowly. "I only had that one baby myself--and he died. But I've always been thankful I had him--even if he died.... That was a good many years ago. But even now, every once in a while, I'll dream I'm holding him in my arms; and then I'll wake up--and I'm not holding anything.... When I wake up like that, when I've been dreaming, I generally throw on my wrapper and run down to the Mother's Ward and wander around a spell, tucking 'em in and seeing that everybody's comfortable. Then I can generally go back and go to sleep all right." Her face was beautiful and gentle as she talked, and Edith Dalton watched it wistfully. She had relaxed a little, and rested back against the pillow. "You don't want children unless you have a home for them," she said half rebelliously. "That's so. Children do need a home! I guess that's what homes are for--little children playing round in 'em." The two women were silent and the room grew darker. Aunt Jane watched the face on her arm. "He's going to sleep," she said. "I'll have to take him back to his mammy." She got up quietly and moved toward the door, jogging her arms as she went. At the door she paused and looked back, over the sleeping child, to the woman on the pillows and smiled to her--as if they knew something together. Then she went out. And Edith Dalton lay staring at the wall. Slowly her eyes filled with tears that sobbed and ran down her face. She covered them with her hands and sobbed again and nestled to the pillows and cried happily--as if her heart were breaking in her. XVII "Mr. Medfield is asking for you again," said Miss Canfield. Aunt Jane, coming out of the Children's Ward, stopped and looked at the nurse and smiled. "I suppose he's fussing and tewing a good deal?" she asked. "He is," admitted Miss Canfield. "Well, I'll be in by and by. You can tell him I'm coming."