Tate thought fit to place himself and his wife on a social equality with the Lauzoons. So Isa was in command when small Malcolm arrived. It was an early June morning, after a night of black horror, when Joyce became aware of the singing of birds out of doors, and a strange, new song in her heart. The latter sensation almost stifled her. She tried to raise her head and look about the room, but the effort made her faint. She waited a moment, then slowly turned her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. There by the low, open window sat Isa Tate, swaying back and forth in the old-fashioned rocker, with something on her lap. Again the strange faintness overpowered Joyce, and the big tears rolled down her face. It had not, then, been all a hideous nightmare? Something sweet and real had remained after the terror and agony had taken flight? "Isa!" So low and trembling was the call that Isa, drowsing luxuriously as she rocked to and fro, took no heed. It was many a day since she, detached from the demands of home cares, could make herself so comfortable. "Isa!"--and then Isa heard. "What is it?" she turned a steady glance toward the bed. She did not intend that Joyce should be exacting. Women were apt to be unless the nurse was rigid. "Do you want anything?" "Oh! Isa is that--my baby?" There was such a thrill in the voice that Isa was at once convinced that Joyce was delirious. She was going to have her hands full. A mere baby, to Isa, was no cause for that tone, and the glorified look. "I guess there ain't any one else going to put in a claim for him," she replied with a vague sense of humorously calming the patient. "Him!" Joyce's tears again overflowed. "Did you say 'him' Isa?" "There, there! do be still now, Joyce, and take a nap. You won't have any too much time for lazing. You better make the most of it." "It's a boy. Oh! It seems too, too heavenly. _My_ little boy! Isa, is--is--he beautiful?" And now no doubts remained in Isa's mind. She must pacify this very trying case. "'Bout as beautiful as they make 'em," she said slowly, and tried to remember what was given to patients when they became unmanageable. "Does--does he look--like--" the words came pantingly--"like the picture in the other room?" Isa was sitting opposite the door leading into the living room, and her eyes fell, as Joyce spoke, upon the Madonna and Child. Then, in spite of her anxiety and weariness, Isa laughed. The entire train of events since her arrival the day before had appealed to her latent sense of humour. "Oh! exactly," she answered and rolling the baby in a blanket she strode over to the bed, and placed him hastily beside Joyce. "There," she said soothingly; "now lay still or you'll hurt the little beauty. I'm going to fix something comforting to drink." She was gone. In the mystery of the still room and the early morning, Joyce was alone with her little son!