"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry 'Oh!' You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a minute, behold he is laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I will make up for it some day, if God is good." "Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta. Her arm rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her eyes swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to these two women? "Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think Ralphie is like--anybody?" "Yes, dear, he is like you." There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes and plucked at Greta's gown. "Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father knows who it is?" "I can not say--_we_ have never told him." "Nor I--he never asked, never once--only, you know, he gave up his work at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he never said a word." Greta did not answer. At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open with a little lordly bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece of bread insecurely on one prong of a fork. "Toas'," he explained complacently, "toas'," and walked up to the empty grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars. "Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta, catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation. Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of the blind. Then she lay back. "Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie quiet and _think_ of all his pretty ways." IV Greta returned home toward noon, laughing and crying a little to herself as she walked, for she was full of a dear delicious envy. She was thinking that she could take all the shame and all the pain for all the joy of Mercy's motherhood. God had given Greta no children. Hugh Ritson came in to their early dinner and she told him how things went at the cottage of the old Laird Fisher. Only once before had she mentioned Mercy or the child, and he looked confused and awkward. After the meal was over he tried to say something which had been on his mind for weeks. "But if anything should happen after all," he began, "and Mercy should not recover--or if she should ever want to go anywhere--might we not take--would you mind, Greta--I mean it might even help her--you see," he said, breaking down nearly, "there is the child, it's a sort of duty, you know--and then a good home and upbringing--" "Don't tempt me," said Greta. "I've thought of it a hundred times." About five o'clock the same evening a knock came to the door, and old Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually solemn and constrained. "I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and rayder suddent."