Charley was seated cross-legged on the floor, her back against a fat old armchair. "How about the babies in France, Lotta? I suppose they're still bundling them up over there. What did the Coot have on when they found her, h'm?" Lotta rose to take the empty bottle away, gently. Claire's eyes were again showing two white slits. Aunt Charlotte, in the window chair, leaned forward. Her tremulous forefinger made circles, round and round, on her black-silk knee. "Yes, Lotta. Now what did she have on, poor little forlorn lamb!" "Why--I don't remember, Aunt Charlotte." She tucked the coverlet in at the sides of the crib firmly. Claire was sound asleep now, her two fists held high above her head, as a healthy baby sleeps. Lottie stood a moment looking down at the child. The old, old virgin in the chair by the window and the young girl seated cross-legged on the floor watched her intently. Suddenly the quiet peaceful air of the nursery was electric. The child made a little clucking sound with tongue and lips, in her sleep. Charley sat forward, her eyes on Lottie. "Lotta, do you remember my five--my five----" she broke off with a half-sob. Then she threw up her head. "I'll have them yet." It was then Aunt Charlotte put into brave words the thought that was in the minds of the three women. "Don't you want to tell us about him, Lottie? Don't you?" For one instant terror leaped into Lottie's eyes as they went from Aunt Charlotte's face to Charley's. But at what they saw there the terror faded and in its place came relief--infinite relief. "Yes." "Well, then, just you do." But Lottie hesitated yet another moment, looking at them intently. "Did you both know--all the time." Aunt Charlotte nodded. But Charley shook her head slightly. "Not until just now, Lotta ... something in your face as you stood there looking down at her." Lottie came away from the crib, sat down in a low chair near Aunt Charlotte. Charley scuttled crab-wise over to her across the floor and settled there against her, her arm flung across Lottie's knee. The old Prairie Avenue house was quiet, quiet. You could hear the child's regular breathing. Lottie's voice was low, so that the baby's sleep might not be disturbed, yet clear, that Aunt Charlotte might hear. They could have gone downstairs, or to another chamber, but they did not. The three women sat in the dim room.