He
felt no anger, only a great perplexity and sadness, an older-brother
grief.
"I'm sorry, little sister," he said, and did the kindest thing he
could think of, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "Of course
I know how you feel, but it is a big thing to bear a child, isn't it?
It is the only miracle we have these days."
"A child with no father," said Ellen, stonily.
"Even then," he persisted, "it's a big thing. We would have this one
come under happier circumstances if we could, but we will welcome and
take care of it, anyhow. A child's a child, and mighty valuable.
And," he added--"I appreciate your wanting me to know, Edith."
He stayed a little while after that, but he read aloud, choosing a
humorous story and laughing very hard at all the proper places. In
the end he brought a faint smile to Edith's blistered lips, and a
small lift to the cloud that hung over her now, day and night.
He made a speech that night, and into it he put all of his aching,
anxious soul; Edith and Dan and Lily were behind it. Akers and
Doyle. It was at a meeting in the hall over the city market, and
the audience a new men's non-partisan association.
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