"No—no, these miseries are not written in my face, John, they will never think that of me."
"Or a widow, perhaps!" rejoined Chester, with a faint smile.
"Don't talk in that way," and Mrs. Chester's eyes filled with tears. "A widow—your widow—I should never live to be that. The very thought makes my heart stand still. With you I can do anything—but alone—a widow—John, never mention that word again!"
Chester drew down his wife's head and kissed her cheek very tenderly, smoothing her bright tresses with his hand the while.
"Why you should learn to think of these things without so much terror, Jane," he said, in a voice full of tenderness, but still sad, as if some unconquerable presentiment were overshadowing him.
"No—no—I cannot! Talk of something else, John; the little girl, we have forgotten her."
The husband and wife both looked toward the couch. Mary had half risen, and with her elbow resting on the pillow, was regarding them intently with her large and glittering eyes.
"We have disturbed her!" said Jane Chester. "How wide wake she is," and she went up to the couch.
"I could not help listening," said the child, falling back on the pillow as Jane came up. "Besides I want to say something. I can sew very nicely, and wash dishes, and sweep, and a great many other things—if you will only let me stay!"
"You shall stay—now go to sleep—you shall stay. Is it not so, John?" said Mrs. Chester turning to her husband.