The intellect of Mr. Nichols revolted fiercely against the sentiment to which it had been subjugated; he saw every fact at last stripped bare.
As the afternoon waned and the rush of business was over, Mr. Nichols leaned forward over his desk and tried to make up his mind to get up and go home. He was weary. That blessed assurance that he had longed for so unutterably yesterday was his, yet it seemed no longer a new bliss, but a fact that he had always known. The pendulum had been set swinging so hard toward the extreme of grief that it could not at once reverse its motion and swing toward happiness. He felt indescribably worn, indescribably old. There are times in all lives that are safely passed through, but take something out of one which no after-delight can put back again; some of those delicate sinews are broken which make the unthinking strength of youth. In his sickness of soul Mr. Nichols sought mechanically for some bright ray in the gray around him—something to bring back his accustomed pleasure in living. Quintilia’s recovery—his wife—children—friends—success—even dinner—all were but words.
In this gloom of effort he half drowsed off; some fleeting wave of a dream showed a spot of light before him; it grew larger and larger, and with it a figure grew also, until it was plainly revealed—the figure of the sixth child, a lovely rounded thing with starry eyes and thistledown curls, dimpling and laughing and thrusting a delicious little pink foot in his bearded face. He could hear the baby voice crying,
“Pa-pa, kiss a footie. Kiss a footie, pa-pa!”
A foolish smile overspread the countenance of the president of the Electrographic Company. In the rapture of love he forgot that he had been disloyal even for a moment to this Sovereign Joy.
The Happiest Time
The Happiest Time
