By noon-time Marthy had a headache. By sundown she had “nerves,” and about then she began to look at Deedee with a sort of reproachful look. Deedee had said that unknown word about ten thousand times. Marthy put Deedee to bed in her crib, and I read once how Wellington, at Waterloo, in the big fight they had there, prayed for night or Blücher, and that was about how Marthy longed for the sandman or me to come. I was the one that come, at last. I come in the house wet to the skin, and plumb disgusted; my pants stickin' to my legs and all over mud, and I chucked my soakin' hat and my umbrelly into a corner, the way a tired-out man will, and just dropped into a chair, tuckered out. I let out one good, long sigh of thanks that I was at the end of a hard day.
“Hiram!” comes Marthy's voice; “Come in here, and see if you can do anything with Edith. I have worked with her all day, and I'm played out; I'm utter tired.”
“Oh, plague!” I says. I sat a minute, drummin' on the arm of my chair, and then I got upon my feet, and walked into the bedroom.
“What's the matter?” I says, as near cross as I calculate I ever git, and Marthy's eyes filled up.
“I can't do anything with her,” she says. “She won't go to sleep. She has been dreadful all day. I don't feel like I could stand it another minute.” Marthy threw herself on the bed and covered up her face with her hands. She was cryin'.
I guess I frowned.
Deedee looked up at me as sweet as a little angel.
“Papa, laim,” she says.
“No!” says I, “No laim, Deedee. You lie down and go to sleep like a good girl. Papa'll fix your pillow nice.”