"I wonder?" Joyce looked down happily upon her child. It did not greatly matter, for now Gaston had struck into one of those compelling airs, so intensely sweet and melodious that it all but hurt; and the red sunset trembled as the tear-dimmed eyes beheld it. The tune changed. It danced elfishly, and trippingly--for very joy it made one laugh. The tear rolled down Joyce's face, as the smile replaced it, and dropped upon the thin cheek of the baby. He did not flinch, and the staring eyes did not falter, but something drew the mother's attention. As the final tripping notes died away, she said softly. "Mr. Gaston, just look--at the baby." The child had rarely drawn them together. It was to make her forget the child--and other things--that Gaston called so often. He came now, and bent over the two. "Does--he--look--just the same to you?" she asked. "Why, yes!" Gaston repressed the desire to laugh. "You see babies are not much in my line. I don't think I ever saw such a little fellow before. They look about the same for a long time, don't they?" "Oh! no. They change every day, and many times during the day. I weighed baby to-day," she faltered, "and do you know, he weighs _less_ than when he was born!" "The ungrateful little heathen!" "I'm afraid--I'm not a good mother." The sweet face quivered. "And I want to be that more than anything else on earth. You see if I can get him through--through this awful time when I can't tell just what might be the matter--it will be easy enough. But young babies are so--so--unreal. You don't know whether you've got them to keep or not. They seem to be kind of holding on to another life, while they clutch this. A good mother knows how to unloose them from that other hold." Gaston was touched by the yearning in the low voice, but the weazened face of the child repelled him, even while it attracted him. "Would it be so--so terrible if he did not let go that--other hold?" It was a stupid thing to say, and Gaston despised himself for being so brutal when he saw the look of horror on the upturned face. "Terrible?" Joyce gasped. "Why, if--if he should leave me, I couldn't live. You don't know how it seems to have him warm and little and soft against your heart. The whole world would be empty--empty, until it would kill me with the emptiness--and I'd always think, you know, he'd found out I wasn't fit to be his mother. It's a foolish fancy, but you know, Mr. Gaston, I think they come to try us mothers--if they find us out--not fit--they don't stay. Such a lot of babies don't stay!"