They moved down the street, with five little Wilkinsons trailing along behind, and Edith was uncomfortably aware that Joe's eyes were upon her.
“You don't look well,” he said at last. “You're wearing yourself out taking care of your mother, Edith.”
“I don't do much for her.”
“You'd say that, of course. You're very unselfish.”
“Am I?” She laughed a little, but the words touched her. “Don't think I'm better than I am, Joe.”
“You're the most wonderful girl in the world. I guess you know how I feel about that.”
“Don't Joe!”
But at that moment a very little Wilkinson fell headlong and burst into loud, despairing wails. Joe set her on her feet, brushed her down with a fatherly hand, and on her refusal to walk further picked her up and carried her. The obvious impossibility of going on with what he had been saying made him smile sheepishly.
“Can you beat it?” he said helplessly, “these darn kids—!” But he held the child close.
At the next corner he turned toward home. Edith stopped and watched his valiant young back, his small train of followers. He was going to be very sad when he knew, poor Joe, with his vicarious fatherhood, his cluttered, noisy, anxious life.