"Henry. I'm so happy—Mrs. Peopping had Jeanette at forty-three. Three years older than me. I'm not afraid."
It was then he looked down at her graying head there, prone against his chest, and a dart of fear smote him.
"Emmy," he cried, dragging her tear-happy face up to his, "if you're afraid—not for anything in the world! You're first, Em."
She looked at him with her eyes two lamps.
"Afraid? That's the beautiful part, Henry. I'm not. Only happy. Why afraid, Henry—if others dare it at—forty-three—You mean because it was her second?"
He faced her with a scorch of embarrassment in his face.
"You—We—Well, we're not spring chickens any more, Em. If you are sure it's not too—"
She hugged him, laughing her tears.
"I'm all right, Henry—we've been too happy not to—to—perpetuate—it."
This time he did not answer. His cheek was against the crochet of her yoke and she could hear his sobs with her heart.