“And mothers get dragged down and worn out; and then, when the little things grow old enough to be a comfort, they go away from you out into the world, or else you die and leave them, and almost break your heart in the going, because you think other people won’t be as tender with them as you have been.”
“Naturally,” growled the sergeant. “A body would almost think you had been through the experience.”
“There are too many children in the world,” said his wife vehemently. “Hear me say again, Stephen, that I’m glad, glad, glad, that I have never had any;” and she sank out of his sight into a seat in a dark corner, and covered her face with her hands.
“You’re so glad,” said her husband kindly, and yet a little ironically, “that you’re crying your eyes out about it.”
“Let me alone, Stephen,” she said passionately; “let me cry. You have always been kind and indulgent with me, and let me have my own way; and I have got selfish, and look out always for my own comfort.”
“Oh! never mind, never mind, Bess,” he said consolingly. “Get into bed again; you’ll take cold.”
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me be unselfish for once. Let me imagine that in the next room there is a little sick child, that it may call me at any minute, that I must be ready to go to it;” and sobbing as if her heart would break, she drew her white hair over her head like a veil, and curled herself up miserably on the low seat.
The sergeant looked in her direction compassionately and with resignation. “I’d cry with you, Bess, if I could,” he said drowsily, “but I can’t. I’ll get up and make a hot drink for you, though, if you like.”
“No, no; I don’t want a hot drink,” she moaned.