“There are finer things than happiness,” she answered.
A child was born to them late in the year. Anthony had never seen a baby before, not at close quarters. In his secret heart, he was disappointed that it was not more beautiful. But as the days went by it seemed to him that this defect was passing away. He judged it to be a very serious baby. It had large round serious eyes. Even its smile was thoughtful. They called it John Anthony.
The elder Mrs. Strong’nth’arm resented the carriage being sent down for her. She said she wasn’t so old that she could not walk a few miles to see her own grandson. Both she and Eleanor agreed that he was going to be like Anthony. His odd ways, it was, that so strongly reminded the elder Mrs. Strong’nth’arm of his father at the same age. They came together over John Anthony, the elder and the younger Mrs. Strong’nth’arm.
“It’s her artfulness,” had argued the elder Mrs. Strong’nth’arm to herself at first; “pretending to want my advice and hanging upon my words; while all the time, I reckon, she’s laughing at me.”
But the next day or the day after she would come again to answer delightedly the hundred questions put to her—to advise, discuss, to gossip and to laugh—to remember on her way home that she had kissed the girl, promising to come again soon.
Returning late one afternoon she met Anthony on the moor.
“I’ve left her going to sleep,” she said. “Don’t disturb her. She doesn’t rest herself sufficiently. I’ve been talking to her about it.
“I’m getting to like her,” she confessed shamefacedly. “She isn’t as bad as I thought her.”
He laughed, putting an arm about her.
“You’ll end by loving her,” he said. “You won’t be able to help it.”