"Nan catch cold! Ha! Ha! That's good," laughed Mr. Valentine. "My dear, you'd better let your one wild colt have her way. She'll never turn into a Prue or a Bertha. Be content with two after your own mind."
He threw his newspaper aside, crossed over, and stooped to kiss her brow, reverently, as if touching a creature of some superior order. The sweet eyes smiled up at him in placid response; and he strolled off, humming a tuneless tune.
Deep under the surface of his rugged yeoman nature was a passion of love for this wife, who nearly forty years earlier had stepped down to his level for love of him, and had never since faltered in her wifely submission. Submission!—Yes, that was true. None the less, if she set her foot upon a thing, he had to do her will: while if he set his, she yielded, but not at all because she had to do so.
"You've got a fire in Bertha's room, Prue?"
"Yes, mother. Blazing."
"And tea is laid."
"Not made yet."
"I wonder if Bertha will stay at home for a few weeks. She has earned a rest."
"Bertha soon gets restless, you know."
"She always wants to be helping other people."