It was part of the trouble which made the frown habitual—the frown, so alien to the sweet and open face of this girl.
Always there was under the surface of her mind the running question—What was Brand Fair to Sonny? And always there lurked in the dim background the word—Father. Was it true? Was the child his son? And if it was true—where and who was the mother?
A deep and terrible ache seemed to take her very bones at this thought—a misery which she could not understand.
She shook herself and sighed and tried to smile down at the boy, but the effort was a failure.
“Nance,” he asked soberly, “don’t you love me any more?”
The girl dropped on her knees and gathered him to her breast in a fierce gesture.
“Love you? Honey child, Nance loves every inch of your little body! She loves you so well she’s scared to death Brand will come along some day and want to take you away again!”
She sat back on her heels and smiled at him, this time successfully. If there was one spot of light in the darkness of her troubles it was the child. Always his pleading eyes, his shy caresses could lighten the load.
And so it was that presently she fell to laughing in her old light-hearted way, sitting back on her heels on the clean white floor and rolling the child this way and that.
Screams of delight from Sonny punctuated the strokes of his bare feet as he kicked in the hysterical ecstasy of Nance’s fingers “creep-mous”-ing up his little ribs.