But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. “Act three. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry.
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