Of no account

by Ruth Lamb

The day was pleasant, the breeze just fresh enough to make walking delightful; and the spirits of the children infected their father.

Mrs. Livesey often said that Adam gave them more words during one walk than anybody else got out of him in a week; but then she should have remembered that she talked more than enough for them both. Even patient Adam had been driven to say that there was no edging in a word beside her. Anyway, he always answered the little folks pleasantly and kindly, and the walk to the park seemed short to them all. Once there, the four went off to the swings, and baby being asleep, Adam sat down on a bench well sheltered by a background of shrubs, lest his smallest charge should suffer by exposure to the breeze, and began to think things over.

When with the children, the man's mind was often sorely perplexed. He loved them dearly, and, in spite of the change in his wife's looks, he had never varied in his affection for her. True, she was not just the Maggie she used to be. But was he not to blame? If he had not married her, somebody brighter and better off might have made her his wife. Was it not wrong of a man who was so little in himself, and who had nothing else, to marry at all? And would the children have no better prospect to look forward to? He could see nothing tempting before any of them. He was only forty years of age now, and his wife thirty-four, but how much older both of them looked than their actual ages!

Just at this moment Adam heard voices behind the shrubs. One was that of a girl, and as she passed on, she gaily hummed a tune. It was one that his wife used to sing in her clear fresh voice, which he had so loved to hear, during their brief courtship and early married days. The sound actually brought moisture, of which he felt thoroughly ashamed, to Adam's eyes, and he was gently disengaging one hand so as to wipe it away, when a different voice addressed him by name. He recognised it in a moment. It was that of Mr. Drummond, and he was by no means glad to hear it, though the words were friendly and the tone pleasant.

"I am glad to see you here, Livesey," said the manager. "You are a wise man to use your half-holiday in this way. One would think that most workers who spend so much time in places like the cotton mill or smithy would be glad to get the smoke and steam blown out of them, now and then, by such a sweet breeze as this."

Adam gave a sort of indistinct murmur of assent, said something about bringing the children out, and "cleaning day," and made as if he would have risen.

He did not want the manager's company, but the man's instincts were ever on the side of courtesy, and he never failed in civility to those whom he had been used to call his "betters."

Mr. Drummond saw the movement, and laying his hand on Adam's arm, said, "Do not get up, please. You might rouse that little sleeper. What a pretty creature!" And he looked admiringly at the child, whose forehead was shaded with dark rings of silky hair, and her long lashes rested on the flushed cheeks.

"By your leave," added the manager, "I will sit down beside you."

What could Adam say? Certainly he could not refuse, for the seat was as free to Mr. Drummond as to him, and there was room for five occupants. Then, too, the feeling of antagonism which he had cherished towards Mr. Drummond was beginning to give way already. That gentleman's frank admiration of his youngest born touched Adam in his tenderest point, and his politeness had gained him a further advantage.