“He's about the best man on earth. He's never said a cross word to me—even at first, when I was panicky and scared at every sound.”
Le Moyne nodded understandingly.
“I burned a lot of victuals when I first came, running off and hiding when I heard people around the place. It used to seem to me that what I'd done was written on my face. But he never said a word.”
“That's over now?”
“I don't run. I am still frightened.”
“Then it has been worth while?”
Tillie glanced up at the two pictures over the mantel.
“Sometimes it is—when he comes in tired, and I've a chicken ready or some fried ham and eggs for his supper, and I see him begin to look rested. He lights his pipe, and many an evening he helps me with the dishes. He's happy; he's getting fat.”
“But you?” Le Moyne persisted.
“I wouldn't go back to where I was, but I am not happy, Mr. Le Moyne. There's no use pretending. I want a baby. All along I've wanted a baby. He wants one. This place is his, and he'd like a boy to come into it when he's gone. But, my God! if I did have one; what would it be?”