"Maybe," Anne said drearily, with such an unexpected cessation of personal interest that Roger turned to her quickly.
"You're tired, Anne. You ought not to have gone."
His eyes were concerned for her, for her personally, her body and her comfort. Anne swallowed the lump that rose suddenly in her throat.
"I guess I am. It was so hot and noisy and they last so long. It must be almost twelve."
Roger drew her arm into his. "I ought not to have let you go."
"I don't think I will any more—before Rogie comes."
"I sha'n't let you," Roger warned, and Anne smiled up at him. Roger smiled back: "You're nothing but a baby yourself."
But he was glad that Anne had decided not to go to any more meetings until after the baby came. Perhaps, then, he and Anne would go and understand together, as they had understood that day on the Bluff in the sweeping wind; and by the lake in the green and scarlet dawn.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In July the baby was born. Anne was very ill and Hilda fluttered about looking reproachfully at Roger. But, with the least impatience of Roger toward her, she propitiated him with assurances that many women were worse, that Anne would not die or be a wreck for life; and when, at the end of two weeks, Anne took a decided turn for the better and the doctors let him go in for a few moments to see her, Hilda acted as if she had personally managed this for his peace of mind.