"Naturally, after such an afternoon."
"Miz Andros," the colored maid's stage whisper floated in from the hall, "Mr. and Miz Markey down-stairs an' want to see you. Mr. Markey he's all cut up in pieces, mam'n. His face look like a roast beef. An' Miz Markey she 'pear mighty mad."
"Why, what incomparable nerve!" exclaimed Edith. "Just tell them we're not home. I wouldn't go down for anything in the world."
"You most certainly will." John's voice was hard and set.
"What?"
"You'll go down right now, and, what's more, whatever that other woman does, you'll apologize for what you said this afternoon. After that you don't ever have to see her again."
"Why—John, I can't."
"You've got to. And just remember that she probably hated to come over here just twice as much as you hate to go down-stairs."
"Aren't you coming? Do I have to go alone?" "I'll be down—in just a minute."
John Andros waited until she had closed the door behind her; then he reached over into the bed, and picking up his daughter, blankets and all, sat down in the rocking-chair holding her tightly in his arms. She moved a little, and he held his breath, but she was sleeping soundly, and in a moment she was resting quietly in the hollow of his elbow. Slowly he bent his head until his cheek was against her bright hair. "Dear little girl," he whispered. "Dear little girl, dear little girl."