"I can't conscientiously advise you to do anything of the sort," he answered. "But why not? Most babies are put on a bottle nowadays." "This one is a delicate little fellow--not five pounds at birth. You want him to get strong--mother's milk is the best medicine." "That settles it," she said slowly. "How long will it be? Six months?" "Yes, six months anyway, perhaps more--perhaps a year. It depends on how he does. I won't disguise it from you--he's worried me once or twice." A year! She didn't know a child was ever nursed a year. A year more of humbleness to Jim, of asking money from her brother, now called big Al, of fear that Mr. Kane might get annoyed and leave, of contriving and skimping and bill dodging. Another year of "womanly" womanhood, clinging to males for support. The doctor saw her disappointment. "It's your sex' share of the world's work, you know," he said, "your duty to society." "I have a baby and we're poor. If I'd had none, we'd be well off this moment," she said sharply. "If I really have done a duty to society why does society punish me for it?" "I don't know," said the doctor. He came rather frequently to the flat at this time, partly on the baby's account, partly on Mrs. Talbot's. The river of life in the elder woman was becoming sluggish; rheumatism crippled her. The doctor veiled his explanation. "Synovial infusion," he called it, "but," he added reassuringly, "pericarditis is not in the least to be apprehended. I will stake my reputation on that." Which gave her new heart. The rivulet of life in the child trickled uncertainly, obstinately refusing to increase. "Hmm," he muttered once, "microcephalic." "What does that mean?" Georgia asked with quick suspicion. "It means that he has a rather small head," smiled the doctor, "but then he is a rather small boy." "Yes, he is tiny, isn't he?" said the mother pressing him to her soft, distended breast. "Little one--little one of mine." She looked at the doctor proudly. "He knows me," she said, "don't you think so?" "Of course he does," he answered, and she knew that nothing else which had ever been or ever would be really mattered. Whenever the doctor came to the flat he found time to tarry in the midst of his busy life of many patients and small fees for a chat with Georgia. He was a happy, crinkled, red faced, blue-gilled little man, who inevitably suggested outdoors, though he wasn't there much, for he drove a closed electric runabout. He always meant some day to write a novel, a true novel, something on the order of "The Old Wives' Tale," showing people as they really were. He thought he had the necessary information. He had seen all sorts of folks come and go for thirty years. But he never seemed to get around to the actual writing. He was so pressed for time.