[XI.]
AFTERWARDS.
This is the one picture that has been ever before my eyes, even in the wild regions of Nevada and the undulating lawns and woody slopes of California. In the snow-clad forests of the Sierra Nevada, and even in the tropical glory of sky and air in Arizona, amid the noise and bustle of the camp, with heavenly peace and loveliness above, and murderous savages, thirsting for our blood lying in deadly ambush all around, I still have seen this picture. A dead man lying with his face to the earth; while close by his side one little spot of dust seems blackened and congealed by blood.
And afterwards? The sunshine steals softly and furtively through the darkened windows of a happy Northern home. It is June, and the perfume of the roses is on the air. In an easy-chair half sits, half reclines, a pale girl, with a happy face, looking down with a perfect smile at Tom, who sits at her feet. And near by stands a nurse, holding in her arms a baby,—a baby whose two gelatinous arms beat the air wildly, while his voice is raised in a shrill note, which may be triumph or which may be agony.
“By Jove!” Tom says admiringly, “his high notes are stunning; ar’n’t they, Nettie?”
“Tom,” replies Nettie, threateningly, “dare to make fun of your offspring again, and we will leave you, and start for Indiana. Won’t we, Baby?”
To this question, reply is given by an absurd inclination of the head on one side and another wheezy shriek.
“I am not laughing, I am not laughing,” Tom hastens to remark, lest the threat of Indiana should be repeated; “so don’t get angry, Baby. I say, Nettie, we must have a name for him. We can’t call him Baby all the time, you know.”
“He was named long ago, Tom,” said Nettie, “though of course I had to wait. We must call him ‘Ned;’ we couldn’t call him by any other name.”
“Thank you, darling,” said Tom, gravely; “that is the way you make me love you more and more every day.” And he kisses his wife, and, rising, takes the baby and looks on its face, while his eyes are filled with tears.