"No," he said at last thickly, "I didn't know." He gave her a look almost frightening in its wildness; shot to the heart, he might have managed just such a smile. He made a frantic gesture with his hands. "Of course—" he said at random. "Of course—a baby!" He walked across the room to look at a picture on the wall. "That's rather—pretty!" he said in a suffocating voice. Suddenly he came back, and sat close beside her; his face was pale. "Martie," he said pitifully, "it's dangerous for you—you're not strong, and if you—if you die, you know——You look pale now, and you're so thin. I don't know anything about it, but I wish it was over!"
Tears sprang to Martie's eyes, but they were tears of exquisite joy. She laid a warm hand over his.
"Why, John, dear, there's no danger!"
"Isn't there?" he asked doubtfully.
"Not the least, you goose! I'm ever so glad and proud about it—don't look so woe-begone!"
Their hands were tightly locked: her face was radiant as she smiled up at him.
"It all works out, John—the furniture clerking, you know, and the being poor, and all that!"
"Sure it does!"
"Other people have succeeded in spite of it, I mean, so why not you and I?"
"Of course, they're not BORN rich and successful," he submitted thoughtfully.