Once or twice the child had asked for her father, accepting quietly
enough the explanation that he was in Germany, and very busy.
"Aren't we going to see him some time, Mother?"
"Not while Grandma needs Mother so much, dear!" Julia would answer
easily.
Easily, because the busy months with their pain and joy, their problems
and their successes, had seemed to seal away in a deep crypt her
memories of her husband. Julia had been afraid to think of him at first;
she could not make herself think of him now; his image drifted vaguely
away from her, as unreal as a dream. He was as much a name as if she had
never seen him, never loved him, never suffered those exquisite agonies
of grief and shame with which the first year of their separation was
full. Jim's child had taken his place; the purity and sweetness of the
child's love filled Julia's heart; she wanted only Anna, and Anna was
her interpreter for all the relationships of life. Anna first made her
draw close to her own mother; Anna was at once her spur and her reward
during the first hard years at Shotwell Street.
Anna had gone upstairs, and Regina was finishing her breakfast when
Chester came downstairs, followed by the still sleepy yet shining-eyed
Geraldine.
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