"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'" "Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion. Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause. "I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me." As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss--dat," many times repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its diminutive finger nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand. "He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta. "But bless the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand." "Puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her child's hand went to her heart like a stab. "Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow." "Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window. "The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta. "He means the horse," explained Mercy. "Go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's in-difference to all conversation except his own. "Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta. Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand. "Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter." "Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the door to the kitchen. "What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him too," said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added, softly, "his hands and his eyes and his feet, and his soft hair." "Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you may get up this afternoon--only _perhaps_, you know, but we'll see." "Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are." "You will be kinder to me some day," said Greta very tenderly. "How very selfish I am. But then it is so hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, never. I'm just Ralphie's mama. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died in some way. That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true." "Man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the patter of tiny feet.