Before going Arthur peeped into the nursery, dropping the most cautious of kisses upon the cheek and forehead of each sleeper. Three-year old Sue made up her lips into a tempting knot as he touched her velvety face.
“Dee’ mamma!” she murmured in her sleep.
He kissed her again for that, the “catch in his throat” in full possession.
“I don’t wonder they love her!” he said brokenly. “Who could help it?”
The block on which the Hitt mansion stood was lined with waiting carriages, and Mr. Cornell supposed that the entertainment, which he called to himself “a show,” must be nearly over. For an instant, he meditated waiting without until the crowd began to pour out, then, making his way into the hall, to send word to his wife that he awaited her pleasure. Something in the immobility of the doors changed his plan. He did not care to lurk for an hour or more among the coachmen who stamped and swore upon the pavement, reminding him of some verses Susie had read to him in other days when she had time for books and the talk over them after they were read. He recalled the first and last verses, and smiled in going through the discontented ranks and up the flight of stone steps:
“My coachman in the moonlight there
Looks through the side light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do—but only more.
······