I grew very philosophical about my disappointment as time went on. I didn't mean to allow it to shadow my whole life. There was lots else to be thankful for. But that night after our little tea-party my philosophy seemed to leave me. It always does when I'm a little tired and need it most. I couldn't keep up any kind of conversation at dinner that night. I tried, but I couldn't. My thoughts got to travelling the wellworn path that they will stray away to every once in a while in spite of me, and it's always Will who comes to my rescue and pulls them back on to safe sure ground, before they lose themselves in utter dejection.
"Let's play some cribbage!" he suggested lightly after dinner.
I laid down my useless embroidery and listlessly drew up to the table. We played three games without an interruption. I won them all. Then just as Will was dealing for a fourth game I had to get out my handkerchief and wipe my eyes.
"Oh, my dear girl!" said Will accusingly.
"I know it, but I can't help it!" I replied. "It seems too cruel! I simply can't bear not to use the room we built the house around. I wish we could find a little child somewhere that we could—borrow. You see, Will, a woman, to be really happy, seems to require a family to take care of, unless she's a genius—an artist or a poet, or something like that, which I'm not. Why, Will," I broke out, "I'm getting so I don't like to hear about other people's children—or see them or want them around. When Alice spoke about bringing her baby into my garden it seemed as if I'd simply have to find somewhere a little creature of our own to play with the flowers I've planted. Don't I know it's a perfect place for children? Don't I know it? And does she think we also wouldn't be prouder of a little child than of your discoveries? Oh, Will, I know how disappointed you are. You won't say it but I know it's awfully hard for you too."
"Nonsense," Will scoffed. "What's hard about it? I've got you, haven't I? You and I are the two best children at playing games in a garden that I ever saw. I'm perfectly satisfied. Come ahead, cut the cards. I'm about to beat you now at five games of crib."
I shook my head and looked away.
"You're mistaken," Will went on, "if you think I'm envying anybody anything. I've yet to meet two people happier than we. Children are pleasant enough incidents in life," Will went on, "but don't you draw any wrong conclusions that happiness is dependent on them. It isn't. Look at Dr. and Mrs. Graham. They never had any, and two more congenial, more contented, happier people never existed—except perhaps ourselves. Dr. Graham has too much sound thought to allow the denial of any one of the supposed blessings of life to disturb his peace. And so have we, Bobbie, don't you think? Some of the very best people in the world, some of those who have accomplished the most effective work, never had children. It isn't the first question we ask about a great man or a good woman. I might have reason to complain if I didn't have my health or a good sound mind, or if after these few precious years together, I lost you. But as it is—well, please don't ever say again, young lady, that our present conditions are hard for me. Hard—Nonsense!"
Dear Will! I'd heard this same little speech of his dozens of times before. When he tries so hard to cheer me it seems too bad not to respond; so I smiled now.
"Will Maynard," I said, "you don't deceive me for one minute by all this talk! Don't think you do! I know—I understand. But I'll say this—and I've said it a hundred times before—you certainly are the kindest man I ever knew."