“You remember, Harry, what we promised each other,—that even with a better income our expenses were not to be increased?”
“Not while I was on a salary, dear; but I am quite contented with the last year of our life; I want nothing grander or better, but I do want to see you in your own house furnished with your own taste, and replete with all the conveniences that will make the housekeeping you love, easy to you; and I shall insist on providing you with such assistance as will save your health and strength. But I am not anxious for style or show, and we will waste no money upon it.”
Nor did they.
Mr. Framley had built one of the handsomest houses in Greenfield, and the charming Queen Anne cottage they had hitherto lived in had been for sale. Molly had often pointed it out to her father-in-law and admired its beautiful lawn and expatiated on the fruits and kitchen garden, little supposing it would soon be her own home.
The only crumple in Molly’s rose leaves was Mrs. Bishop, senior’s, views with regard to the baby. Molly had had no babies: her mother-in-law had had eight, five of whom had lived and flourished. But Molly had known other people’s babies, and had made their experience her own, so far as observation enabled her to do it, and she had read all the good writing there was on the baby question, and, as may be expected, had her views and naturally wished to carry them out in the person of her own baby. If a woman can’t do what she likes with her own baby, when is she to do it?
But, strange to say, the dowager, Mrs. Bishop, seemed to feel the new comer was even more Harry’s baby and her own grandchild than Molly’s child, and being her first “posterity,” she was very much interested in it, and she and Mr. Bishop had come to the Greenfield hotel in order to be at hand.
Very soon Molly, with her latter-day views of baby training, and Mrs. Bishop, with her experience of eight, clashed. For days the struggle was silent, for she was Harry’s mother; and all the directions for giving anise-seed tea and gin and water, and paregoric, were quietly disregarded,—but the tug of war came when Molly refused to nurse it before the appointed hour.
“And you mean to say you will not feed that little creature till the time you think it needs it? Can you judge of a baby’s hunger?”
“Mamma, I asked the doctor to guide me, and all the best writers say”—
“There it is!” cried Mrs. Bishop, triumphantly. “You are such a theorist, Molly; but you can’t bring up a child by books, and it may cost you this one’s life or health to find that out. I am surprised a woman of your sense should not see that you can’t set up your book experience against the practical knowledge of a mother of eight.”