"What is it?" Hu Yan Wuhen asked, holding the infant.
Pei Sanniang said, "Rest assured, General. She is only hungry. Someone has already been sent to prepare mare's milk."
Hu Yan Wuhen asked, "Still no wet nurse?" Ordinarily, he would never concern himself with such matters. This was rare indeed.
Pei Sanniang said, "People have already been sent to look, but the common folk have been affected by the war. Finding someone suitable on short notice will not be easy."
Hu Yan Wuhen nodded silently. Looking again at the wailing infant, sorrow gradually surfaced on his face.
For a mouthful of food, the infant cried as though her heart were being torn apart. Yet the little one's heart-rending cries stirred the grief he had kept buried in his heart.
She had lost both her father and mother just after being born, as though she were crying because of it.
His eldest and second sons had died in battle, yet their family lines remained. Both had sons. Only his third son had this one daughter, and this daughter had escaped disaster only because she had been born prematurely.
To this old general, the end of his third son's family line could be said to have been caused by his own hand. His third son had had many chances to live, yet he had personally buried them all.
His third son, Hu Yan Wei, could be said to have been driven to death by his own hand!
The infant's cries made it impossible for him to suppress the sorrow in his heart. He was especially fond of the little one in swaddling clothes. Even while in the army, he would come to see her whenever he had time, terrified that something might happen because of her premature birth, repeatedly instructing the cultivators