“Where is your Herbert Spencer?” Bertha couldn’t help asking; but at that moment the truant nurse arrived; the boy, still in his attitude of clutching, was detached from his mamma’s gown, one hand and foot at a time, as one separates a cat from a cushion. As soon as this was accomplished, he turned and fell upon his nurse in like manner, and the sight of a round little body, entirely headless, with two waving black feet, was Bertha’s last view of the heir of the Bronsons.
The two women clasped hands impulsively and looked at each other; then they both burst into a fit of laughter, deliciously inconsequent.
“It is so perfectly ridiculous!” said Sarah at last.
“What?” asked Bertha.
“Why, that it is I, at all. It’s so absurd to think that that’s my baby! I haven’t the least idea what to do with him.”
They both laughed again, helplessly.
“You are very happy?” asked Bertha, trying to be serious.
“I suppose I am. Sometimes I think everything is topsy-turvy, and I don’t see straight; it’s all so different from the life I used to live, but—it’s nice.”
“Do you keep up your music?” asked Bertha again, after a pause.
“I don’t keep up anything. I play dance music, and read the newspapers. I’ve been traveling nearly all the time since I was married. Will’s business keeps us flying, for one reason or another, there are so many companies that he has to see. I’m always packing or unpacking, or in a Pullman car, and I think always that when I get through traveling I will find myself back at uncle’s once more, and begin to dust everything neatly. You know that we go off again to-night. I’m so sorry you won’t see my husband; he’ll not be back here until train time.”