The taxi had stopped now, and Robert helped her out in a manner that made her feel very, very old and frail. “Wait till I pay the driver, mother,” he said. “Don’t try to go alone—it’s too dark.” So Mrs. Champney waited in the dark road outside that strange little house. Her son was paying for the cab; her son was going to assist her up the path; she was old and helpless and dependent. Then the front door opened, and Molly stood there against the light. “Hello, mother dear!” she called, in that big, rich, beautiful voice of hers. “Hurry in! It’s cold!” Mrs. Champney did hurry in, and Molly caught her in both arms and hugged her tight. “Just don’t mind very much how things are, will you?” she whispered. “My housekeeping’s pretty awful, you know!” Tears came to Mrs. Champney’s eyes again, because this was such a blessed sort of welcome. “As if I’d care!” she said. “Let me show your room—and Bobbetty,” said Molly. She took the bag from Robert, who had just come in, and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Champney followed her. All the little house seemed warm and bright with Molly’s beautiful, careless spirit. It wasn’t strange or awkward. It was like coming home; and the room that Molly had got ready for her was so pretty! “Dinner’s all ready,” said Molly; “but—if you’ll just take one look at Bobbetty. He’s—when he’s asleep, he’s—” Words failed her. Mrs. Champney got herself ready as quickly as she could, and followed Molly down the hall to a closed door. Molly turned the handle softly, and they stepped into a little room that was like another world, all dark and still, with the wind blowing in at an open window. “Nothing wakes him up!” whispered Molly proudly, and turned on a green-shaded electric lamp that stood on the bureau. Mrs. Champney went over to the crib and looked down at the child who lay there—the child who was her child, flesh of her flesh, and was yet another woman’s child. He was beautiful—more beautiful than any of her children had been. He lay there like a little prince. His face, olive-skinned and warmly flushed on the cheeks, wore a look of careless arrogance, his dark brows were level and haughty, his mouth was richly scornful; and yet, for all this pride of beauty, she could not help seeing the baby softness and innocence and helplessness of him. He might lie there like a little prince, but he was caged in an iron crib, he wore faded old flannel pyjamas, and beside him, where it had slipped from the hand that still grasped it in dreams, lay such an unprincely toy! Mrs. Champney, bending over to examine it, found it to be a rubber ball squeezed into a white sock. It seemed to Mrs. Champney that she could never tire of looking at that beautiful baby. She hadn’t half finished when Molly touched her arm and whispered “Robert,” and, turning out the light, led her husband’s mother across the dark, windy room out into the hall again. “I heard Robert getting restless downstairs,” she explained.