Anson turned away and went into the kitchen to wash his face and to comb his hair, glad to get rid of the sight of Kendall for a moment. Mrs. Stickney was toasting some bread.
"She's awake an' wants to see you when you woke up. It's a girl—thought I'd tell ye—yes: she's comfortable. Say, 'tween you an' me, a man 'at 'u'd run off—waal—" she ended, expressively glancing at Kendall.
Once more Anson caught his breath as he entered the darkened chamber. He was a rough, untaught man, but there was something in him that made that room holy and mysterious. But the figure on the bed was tranquil now, and the voice, though weak and low, was Flaxen's own.
He stopped as his eyes fell on her. She was no longer a girl. The majesty of maternity was on her pale face and in her great eyes. A faint, expectant smile was on her lips; her eyes were fixed on his face as she drew the cover from the little red, weirdly-wrinkled face at her throat.
Before he could speak, and while he was looking down at the mite of humanity, Kendall stepped into the room.
"Hello, Ellie! How are—"
A singular revulsion came out on her face. She turned to Anson. "Make him go 'way; I don't want him."
"All right," said Kendall cheerfully, glad to escape.
"Isn't she beautiful?" the mother whispered. "Does she look like me?" she asked artlessly.
"She's beautiful to me because she's yours, Flaxie," replied Anson, with a delicacy all the more striking because of the contrast with his great frame and hard, rough hands. "But there, my girl, go to sleep like baby, an' don't worry any more."