And now she's dead. My little girl, my little girl!" And the
big man burst out sobbing.
Selma grew deadly pale. No one had ever spoken to her like that before
in her life. To the horror of her grief was added the consciousness that
she was being unjustly dealt with. Lewis had heard the doctor's
statement, and yet he dared address her in such terms. As if the loss of
the child did not fall equally on her.
"If it were to be done over again, I should do just the same," she
answered, with righteous quietness. "To all appearances she had nothing
but a little cold. You have no right to lay the blame on me, her
mother." At the last word she looked ready to cry, too.
Babcock regarded her like a miserable tame bull. "I didn't mean to," he
blubbered. "She's taken away from me, and I'm so wretched that I don't
know what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Selma."
He held out his arms to her. She was ready to go to them, for the angel
of death had entered her home and pierced her heart, where it should be
most tender. She loved her baby. Yet, when she had time to think, she
was not sure that she wished to have another. When the bitterness of his
grief had passed away, that was the hope which Lewis ventured to
express, at first in a whisper, and later with reiterated boldness.
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