* * * * *
What she said was by no means all sweetness. There was mingled with it much terror and some anger. Letty was not one of the women who take maternity as a matter of course.
But emotion and natural feeling had their way. George was dissolved in joy. He threw himself at her feet, resting his head against her knee.
"If he doesn't have your eyes and hair I'll disinherit him," he said, with a gaiety which seemed to have effaced all his fatigue.
"I don't want him," was her pettish reply; "but if she has your chin, I'll put her out to nurse. Oh! how I hate the thought of it!" and she shuddered.
He caught her hand, comforting her. Then, putting up both his own, he drew her down to him.
"After all, little woman, it hasn't turned out so badly?" he said in her ear, with sad appeal. Their lips met, trembling. Suddenly Letty broke into passionate weeping. George sprang up, gathered her upon his knee, and they sat for long, in silence, clinging to each other.
At last Letty drew back from him, pushing a hand against his shoulder.
"You know—you didn't care a bit for me—when you married me," she said, half bitter, half crying.
"Didn't I? And you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.