She
touched it with her little fragile fingers.
"You will let me make one for you, dearie, won't you?" she said. "I feel
sure it will be a little Christ baby."
Arthur was still away when she arrived home. He had gone to Norway on
business. Her father was afraid he would find it difficult to get back.
Telegraphic communication had been stopped, and they had had no news of
him. Her father was worried. A big Government contract had come in,
while many of his best men had left to enlist.
"I've fixed you up all right at the hospital," he said. "It was good of
you to think of coming home. Don't go away, for a bit." It was the
first time he had asked anything of her.
Another fortnight passed before they heard from Arthur, and then he wrote
them both from Hull. He would be somewhere in the North Sea, mine
sweeping, when they read his letters. He had hoped to get a day or two
to run across and say good-bye; but the need for men was pressing and he
had not liked to plead excuses. The boat by which he had managed to
leave Bergen had gone down.
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