"You haven't forgotten the lil' room, off in the corner, have you, Sandy? The lil' room where the baby-things are to come to me to be—cuddled?"
Sandy shivered.
"You—haven't left that out, have you, Sandy?"
"I had, lil' Cyn, but I am going to put it aback—to-morrow."
"I'm right glad, Sandy, for I've learned some mighty sweet lil' tunes, and I've bought some pictures and books with stories that will make them-all laugh when we've taught them how. My trunk is full of things for the babies."
Sandy permitted himself one look at the dear face so close to his own. It wore the white rapt look he remembered so well; the wonderful, brooding tenderness as fancy held it. It was so she had looked upon him when, as a ragged boy, he sat beside her. She had awakened imagination within his starved soul and given his ambition wings with which to soar.
He and she were now bent forward toward the smouldering fire; he on the stool, she in the deep chair.
"Do you remember, Sandy, lil' Madam Bubble?"
"I reckon I remember nothing else so—clearly."
He looked away, he could trust himself no farther.