In the midst of this crisis, the shadow of pain fell upon his darling wife. Gallant little Fay, triumphing over agony, looked forward exultantly almost, but George, clinging to her soft hand, felt the warmth of it grow less, felt it plucked at mysteriously as by the tuggings of an unseen current, and was chilled to the heart with fear that she was gone from him forever—chilled and rebellious until at last, as in quiet after storm, he saw her drift back to him across an eddy of unconsciousness, paler but more divine, resting exhausted amid her pillows.
"Our son," she murmured, with an ecstatic, crooning note in her voice, "Our son, George Junior!"
But at this time George Judson knew himself in his heart for an unnatural father. He clung softly to the hand of Fay and kissed it, but had a grudge against this tiny, breathing bundle, for he felt that it had very nearly deprived his life of the dearest thing in it. With passing hours, however, this feeling began to wear off. It went away entirely on that day when four small, lace-work fingers fastened with a clinging grip about the exploring forefinger of George Senior, and refused stubbornly to let go—held him as if thereby he adopted him.
"By jingo!" crowed George. "He knows me. He knows who he's got hold of, and he just isn't going to let go."
