“Lanty, dear, wasn’t that just a man’s word? She’s a woman, you know, and Lanty, I’ve been to see her, and it’s all so forlorn; and she’s so—so—oh, Lanty! And Vashti was there and she asked if her baby was deformed, fancy that! And it was the poor little scraps of clothes which made the child look queer. But it was the sort of queerness which makes you cry, and Lanty, I said I would send her some patterns, and you’ll take them over to-morrow morning, won’t you?”
“But, girlie,” he began; just then Dorothy gave a sleepy cry.
Lanty and Mabella rose as by one impulse and went into the twilight of the room where the child’s cot was. But their baby slept serenely and smiled as she slept.
“The angels are whispering to her,” said Mabella. The old sweet mother fable which exists in all lands.
“Yes,” said Lanty. A tremor shaking his heart as he wondered why this heaven of wife and child was his.
As they passed into the other room they saw the child’s clothes upon a chair in a soft little heap like a nest; and all at once there rushed over Mabella’s tender heart all the misery of that other mother, and before Lanty knew it, Mabella was in his arms crying as if her heart would break.
“Oh, Lanty, Lanty,” she sobbed; “think of poor Ann Serrup! When her baby cries in the night who goes with her to look after it?”
“There, there,” said Lanty, searching distractedly for soothing arguments; “don’t, Mabella, don’t; I’ll take the traps over first thing in the morning.” And presently Mabella was comforted, and peace rested like a dove upon the roof-tree.
So early next morning Lanty departed with the parcel. In due time he arrived before the little house. The house door stood open—humbly eager to be entered. Early as it was Ann was up, and came to the door looking neat and tidy. She took the parcel with the undisguised eagerness of a child. Lanty turned away, letting his horse walk down the lane-like road. He was not much given to theorizing; a good woman was a good one, a bad one a bad one in his estimation, but this morning he found himself puzzling uneasily over the whys and wherefores. It is an old, old puzzle, and like the conundrum of Eternity, has baffled all generations, since the patriarch of Uz set forth that one vessel is created to honour and another to dishonour. So Lanty found no solution, and was tightening his reins to lift his horse into a gallop when he heard someone calling, and turning, saw Ann speeding in pursuit. She reached him somewhat blown and decidedly incoherent as to speech.
“She has sent the yoke pattering, and a white apron and heaps of things! There ain’t nothing but real lady in Mis’ Lansing! Sakes! I wisht the preacher’s wife could see Reub now! I’ll take him to church next Sunday, and if he squalls I can’t help it And here—take this and keep it—and don’t let him harm me, will you? And I never meant no harm to you personal, but he was for ever pestering me, and he said he was coming over early this morning for ’em, and for me to sign ’em; but Lor’! I didn’t have no ink—and don’t tell Mis’ Lansing, she’s a lovely lady, and I didn’t mean no harm, and he said there wouldn’t be no law business, because you’d give me heaps of money, ’cause being as you drank, people would believe anything of you; and Lor’! hear that baby! Mind you don’t tell Mis’ Lansing”—with which Ann turned and fled back to console her child. Lanty, much mystified, opened the thin packet of papers. An instant’s scrutiny sent him into a blind mad rage, which made him curse aloud in a way not good to hear.