She bore him two boys, but he was always wishing for a girl. And at
last a fair-haired baby girl arrived.
She was the apple of his eye, and as she grew up she resembled her
mother more and more. When she was eight years old, she was just what
her mother had been. And the father devoted all his spare time to his
little daughter.
The housework had coarsened the mother's hands. Her nose had lost its
shape and her temples had fallen in. Constant stooping over the kitchen
range had made her a little round-shouldered. Father and mother met only
at meals and at night. They did not complain, but things had changed.
But the daughter was the father's delight. It was almost as if he were
in love with her. He saw in her the re-incarnation of her mother, his
first impression of her, as beautiful as it had been fleeting. He was
almost self-conscious in her company and never went into her room when
she was dressing. He worshipped her.
But one morning the child remained in bed and refused to get up. Mama
put it down to laziness, but papa sent for the doctor. The shadow of
the angel of death lay over the house: the child was suffering from
diphtheria. Either father or mother must take the other children away.
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