A little later, seated on her father's knee and plucking at
his tie in a futile fashion that he loved, she asked him:
"Daddy--about mother--"
They seldom talked of her, but always during these rare moments a
beautiful mood shaped itself between them. It was as if the mere breath
of his daughter's sweetly lipped use of "mother" swayed the bitter-sweet
memory of the woman he carried so faithfully in the cradle of his heart.
"Yes, baby--about mother?"
"Daddy"--still fingering at the tie--"was mother--was everything all
right with her up--to the very--end? I mean--no nerv--no pain? Just all
of a sudden the end--quietly. Or have you told me that just to--spare
me?"
She could feel him stiffen, but when his voice came it was even.
"Why, Ann, what a--question! Haven't I told you so often how mother just
peacefully passed on, holding a little pink you."
Sweet-Beautiful--his heart was tolling through a sense of
panic--Sweet-Beautiful.
"I know, daddy, but before--wasn't there any nerv--any sickness?"
"No," he said, rather harshly for him.
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