They drove out one day to the farm where they had
stopped. The farmer's wife had a week-old baby, the sight of
which made Henriette's heart leap with delight. He was such a
very healthy baby that George conceived the idea that this would
be the woman to nurse his own child, in case Henriette herself
should not be able to do it.
They came back to the city, and there the baby was born. As
George paced the floor, waiting for the news, the memory of his
evil dreams came back to him. He remembered all the dreadful
monstrosities of which he had read--infants that were born of
syphilitic parents. His heart stood still when the nurse came
into the room to tell him the tidings.
But it was all right; of course it was all right! He had been a
fool, he told himself, as he stood in the darkened room and gazed
at the wonderful little mite of life which was the fruit of his
love. It was a perfect child, the doctor said--a little small,
to be sure, but that was a defect which would soon be remedied.
George kneeled by the bedside and kissed the hand of his wife,
and went out of the room feeling as if he had escaped from a
tomb.
All went well, and after a couple of weeks Henriette was about
the house again, laughing all day and singing with joy. But the
baby did not gain quite as rapidly as the doctor had hoped, and
it was decided that the country air would be better for her. So
George and his mother paid a visit to the farm in the country,
and arranged that the country woman should put her own child to
nurse elsewhere and should become the foster-mother of little Gervaise.
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