"Why--it's the baby!" cried Fanny, and swung her out of the
nurse's protesting arms. Such a German-looking baby. Such
an adorably German-looking baby. "Du kleine, du!" Fanny
kissed the roseleaf cheek. "Du suszes--" She turned
suddenly to Theodore. "Olga--where's Olga?"
"She did not come."
Fanny tightened her hold of the little squirming bundle in
her arms. "Didn't come?"
Theodore shook his head, dumbly. In his eyes was an agony
of pain. And suddenly all those inexplicable things in his
face were made clear to Fanny. She placed the little Mizzi
in the nurse's arms again. "Then we'll go, dear. They
won't be a minute over your trunks, I'm sure. Just follow
me."
Her arm was linked through Theodore's. Her hand was on his.
Her head was up. Her chin was thrust out, and she never
knew how startlingly she resembled the Molly Brandeis who
used to march so bravely down Norris street on her way to
Brandeis' Bazaar. She was facing a situation, and she
recognized it. There was about her an assurance, a
composure, a blithe capability that imparted itself to the
three bewildered and helpless ones in her charge.
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