"Adela," he breathed, his voice low with its agitation, "you do love me a little! You surely do!"
"Just a very little—sometimes," she whispered in a half-saucy, half-loving tone. And, when he let his face fall on hers, she for once held it there, and welcomed the kisses from his lips.
It was all the work of the baby, his child and hers, thought he in his glad heart. But no. Now and again, at rare intervals, Adela did feel a spark of tenderness for him: though instead of letting it come to fruit, of allowing him to see it, she forced it back to the coldness she had taken up, and resolutely steeled her heart against him. Illness had just now somewhat softened her spirit.
He went round the bed to the side where the baby lay, and looked at it long and earnestly. The doctor had just told him that he did not feel altogether easy on the score of the child; could not be sure that it was likely to live.
"It is a pale little blossom, Adela. I thought babies were generally red."
"Frightfully red. I have seen them."
"Well, we will get it baptized; and then——"
"What?" she cried—for he had stopped.
"And then, I was going to say, whether it lives or dies, it will be safe in its Saviour's arms."
"But you do not think it will die?" she cried, taking up some alarm. "Oh, Francis, I should not like him to die, now he has come!"