"If I have come for anything but Lizzī and the baby there in the cradle, I hope she will never forgive me for being away from her so long."
Gill spoke frankly.
When Peter slammed the door he was outside, peering into the darkness and hoping to discover the sons for whom his heart longed.
The jar caused by the door being shut so positively awoke the baby, and it began to cry.
"Come see the baby, John," said Lizzī. "There isn't a finer boy in the regi'n."
Then running to the cradle, she patted and soothed the child, exclaiming in the glad language and fond tones of happy mothers: "Oh! oh! it was too bad for its granddaddy to scare it awake that way."
She did not lift the infant from the cradle, for she wanted to keep Gill in ignorance as long as possible of the fire-mark that disfigured its cheek.
He admired his son very much, yet in lame sentences that seemed forced. A twinge of disappointment shot through Lizzī's heart, and a shadow of vexation passed over her face. Seeing the change in her countenance, he said:
"You know, Lizzī, that a man isn't much at praising a baby, no matter if he thinks it the prettiest child ever born."
This in a measure satisfied her, and, smiling brightly, she said: