Owen Oliver

“ Omi pulled one arm out of the rug, and put it around me.
“Jimmy,” she said. “We have the same baby!”
A man may be clever and wise—though I am neither—but a woman is far cleverer and wiser. I shall always feel that, when Omi said that, she made a difference in both our lives; but I didn't see it all at once.
“Of course!” I said. “I shall take a lot of interest in him when he grows up; but I meant while he's a—a little sleepy bundle—when he does sleep. And you have everything to do with him. ”

“ I agreed. “He's——” I looked at him for a long time; and Omi pulled the flannel farther off, and pointed to his little hands gripping each other. If there is anything pretty about a baby, I think it is its hands. “He's—ours!” I said.
“Now you see what I mean!” Omi cried triumphantly.
“I always thought you were clever, Omi,” I said; “and now I know! Of course I see! We shall have to do it together! Bring him up, I mean.”
“Of course we shall! And it will be something to do quite by ourselves; more by ourselves than anything. And so we shall be more chums than ever; and—and—oh, Jimmy! ”

“ She held out the struggling bundle for Omi to hug; and Omi hugged him, and held him out to me.
“Say good-by to your cruel father, who won't carry his little son,” she said. “Do mind his back, Jimmy!”
“I'm hanged if I don't take him up,” I said. “Come along, son and heir.”
And I carried him up-stairs before I handed him over to nurse.
“That's right,” the old lady said. “You help with him, and it won't come so hard on her. I often think—if you don't mind an old woman speaking plainly, sir?” ”