"There is none," she answered, and the tone went to Amy's heart with a nervous thrill. "And so this is your boy. What is he called?"
"Robert," answered Amy, feeling for the first time a strange dislike at saying his pet name. But her husband was not so scrupulous.
"We call him Bertie," he said.
"And so will I. Come and make friends, Bertie. What lovely hair he has, so soft and curly. I suppose,—indeed I can see,—you are quite proud of the boy, Mr. Vavasour."
"Mrs. Vavasour is, if I am not."
"Of course. All mothers are of their first-born. Do not go so near the fire, Bertie. You make me tremble lest anything should befall you."
What could happen to the child? Amy drew him further away still, then took him in her arms as if only there he was safe and shielded from all harm.
When Frances left the room Amy sighed more deeply than before, yet scarcely knew why she felt so low and sad, or why Frances' appearance should have brought with it a nervous dread; save that in that long-ago time, which she had tried to bury and forget, Frances had been her bitterest enemy, and she could not but feel that her coming now was disagreeable to her, nay more, caused a sudden, nameless fear to arise in her heart; and now although Frances' words were friendly, yet Amy detected, or fancied she did—a lurking sarcasm in their tone.
"I wish we were back at Somerton, Robert," she said.
"Again!" exclaimed Robert, "now Amy, you deserve to be scolded for this. What an impatient little woman you are! Shall we not be home in a month?"