"I d'n' know. Hain't seen 'im sence yesterday. He don't amount to much, anyway, and in these cases there ain't no dependin' on a boy like that. It's nachel fer girls to call on their mothers an' fathers in such cases."
Anson was about to ask her what the trouble was with his girl, when she turned away. She could not be dangerously ill; anyway, there was comfort in that.
After he had eaten a slight breakfast of bad coffee and yellow biscuits, Mrs. Stickney came back.
"She's awake an' wants to see yeh. Now don't get excited. She ain't dangerous."
Anson was alarmed and puzzled at her manner. Her smile mystified him.
"What is the matter?" he demanded.
Her reply was common enough, but it stopped him with his foot on the threshold. He understood at last. The majesty and mystery of birth was like a light in his face, and dazzled him. He was awed and exalted at the same time.
"Open the door; I want to see her," he said in a new tone.
As they entered the darkened chamber he heard his girl's eager cry.
"Is that you, pap?" wailed her faint, sweet voice.