Sidney Miller had never held any sleeping human being before in his life. Not even Sheilah when she was a baby. It hadn't been allowed. Dora said it wasn't good for babies to be held. Nobody had ever clung to Sidney Miller and become limp and relaxed like this in his arms. It gave him a sort of choked feeling. Of course he had always been fond of Sheilah. Naturally. His own child. And suffered tortures if ever she was sick or in danger, and felt fearfully sorry for the poor kid when Dora had insisted upon some of her theories, but he had never known Sheilah intimately. A daughter belonged first to her mother, Dora said. Besides, Dora understood girls so much better. He had never caressed Sheilah nor she him, except in fun—in a spirit of laughter and play. And now suddenly, when she was broken and bruised, she turned to him—she clung to him, and went to sleep in his arms! Good Lord! But it gripped him! It must be weak and sentimental to feel like this about one's own child. He was ashamed of the aching tenderness that stirred him whenever he glanced down at Sheilah. But ashamed though he was, he hoped Dora wouldn't come and interrupt the new sensations. He had given Dora two
