Adrian relaxed a trifle. Finally his set face softened; he laughed.
It was the evening of July 14, 1849. Stanley stood over the cradle of his son, looking worshipfully down at the tiny sleeping face. Inez Stanley, busied with the varied tasks of motherhood, came and stood for a moment beside him. She voiced that platitude of wives and mothers in their pride: "He looks just like you, Adrian."
Stanley put his hands upon her shoulders. "Got your mouth, your big eyes," he said, and kissed her.
They were wont to quarrel tenderly over this. But tonight Inez looked seriously up at her husband. Suddenly she hid her face upon his shoulder.
"If only--if only--" she whispered, "he wouldn't grow up. And we wouldn't grow old."
Stanley's fingers on her hair stroked gently. "Life is life, my dear," he said at last. "Let us not question the inexorable too deeply. Yesterday is gone, you know. Tomorrow never comes.... And here we are together in the best town in the world. With love, good prospects ... our little Francisco--"
"He will live to see a great city," said Inez, comforted. "He will help to make it." Her eyes were prophetic. The child stirred and hastily they withdrew, lowering the light so that his slumber might be undisturbed. A light tap sounded at the door and Adrian answered.
Spear and Brannan with Benito stood upon the threshold. The latter entered, kissed his sister and was shown the sleeping child. "How is Alice?" Inez asked.
"Well. And the best little wife in the world," Benito answered. His eyes glowed happily. "The tiny Francisco is growing like a weed. Only ten months old--"