It was after noon when she reached home.  She was met at the door by the hired girl with the worried ejaculation that baby was choking.  The doctor was hastily summoned.  He at once pronounced that Muriel Grace had membranous croup, and was desperately ill.  Remedies of various sorts were tried, and a consulting physician called, but when Babcock returned from his office her condition was evidently hopeless.  The child died in the early night.  Selma was relieved to hear the doctor tell her husband that it was a malignant case from the first, and that nothing could have averted the result.  In response to questions from Lewis, however, she was obliged to admit that she had not been at home when the acute symptoms appeared.  This afforded Babcock an outlet for his suffering.  He spoke to her roughly for the first time in his life, bitterly suggesting neglect on her part.

“You knew she wasn’t all right this morning, yet you had to go fiddle-faddling with that architect instead of staying at home where you belonged.  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.  Selma acquiesced externally, but she had her own opinions.  Certain things which were not included in “Mother Lore,” had been confided by Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle by word of mouth in the fulness of their mutual soul-scourings, and had remained pigeon-holed for future reference in Selma’s inner consciousness.  Another baby just at this time meant interference with everything elevating.  There was time enough.  In a year or two, when she had established herself more securely in the social sphere of Benham, she would present her husband with a second child.  It was best for them both to wait, for her success was his success; but it would be useless to try to make that clear to him in his present mood.