Well—John never could dance. But she managed to make him whirl with her dizzily through the two tiny rooms she had made.
“John! It’s beginning all over again! Going to housekeeping! I’m the little bride. You can be the groom—if you like?”
“Yes,” mused John, very happily, “beginning all over again—going to housekeeping—again. But something—is not—”
The cradle was there—they had always kept it—and John looked at that and laughed guiltily.
“Not that, John—not that, John,” cried Betsy, plunging into his arms with sobs. “Not that—not that—talk about the roof—if you like—anything—but—not—that!”
VIII
THE END OF LIFE IS AS ITS BEGINNING—SIMPLE
Afterward life was again to them much the same. Only they learned to go more and more to the churchyard on Sundays with homely garden flowers in their hands. But, again, they were very happy. John still maintained that they were renewing their youth. Betsy retorted that it was second childhood. For there was now a quaver in John’s voice which Betsy heard but never spoke of, and a tremor in Betsy’s hands which John saw and never mentioned.
The next winter Betsy slipped on the ice and fell. To her surprise she could not get up again. John carried her in and went for the doctor. She had broken her thigh.
She smiled up at the physician very placidly when he shook his head.
“Doctor, you must—must patch me up. John needs me.”