At last, when she had put Lucinda to sleep in the wooden cradle which had been her own, he called her to him.
“Come here,” he said, “I want to ask you a question.”
She came readily and stood at his knee, laying her hands upon it and looking up at him, as she had had a habit of doing ever since she first stood alone.
“How would you like some new rooms?” he said, suggestively.
“Like these?” she answered, a pretty wonder in her eyes.
“No,” said Tom, “not like these—bigger and brighter and prettier. With flowers on the walls and flowers on the carpets, and all the rest to match.”
He had mentioned this bold idea to Molly Hollister the day before, and she had shown such pleasure in it, that he had been quite elated.
“It’s not that I need anything different,” he had said, “but the roughness and bareness don’t seem to suit her. I’ve thought it often when I’ve seen her running about.”
“Seems like thar ain’t nothin’ you don’t think of, Tom,” said Molly, admiringly.
“Well,” he admitted, “I think about her a good deal, that’s a fact. She seems to have given me a kind of imagination. I used to think I hadn’t any.”