Certainly, it was a moment of cruel torture, which should have
precluded every other consideration from my brain than concern for the
hapless infant and harsh self-reproach. And yet, as Winona finished
speaking, I made the imp of a reflection that she was sending for a
doctor in spite of Christian Science, and that the scales of
hallucination had fallen from her eyes at the wail of her own flesh and
blood. I was even tempted for an instant to hazard the suggestion
that, as there is no such thing as matter, there could be nothing the
matter with baby, but I bit my tongue in the throes of my disgust at my
involuntary levity.
Harold had sped down the avenue like an arrow, but scarcely had he
disappeared before the gory streak which dabbled my poor little
victim's brow, and which had seemed to my heated imagination almost an
arterial outburst, yielded to the whisk of a pocket-handkerchief.
Although he still yelled as if his heart would break, I was beginning
to reflect that, barring the very slight scratch on his forehead, he
was more frightened than hurt, when Josephine suggested, like a true
grandmother, the possibility of internal injuries.
My heart began to throb violently once more, and my mouth to taste dry,
but Winona came to my rescue.
"Mother," she exclaimed, in a tone of stern impressiveness, "it is of
the utmost importance for baby's sake that you shouldn't think anything
of the kind, for by thinking that he has any internal injuries you
might, or I might, or father might cause the darling to think the same.
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