Robert glanced at me keenly.
"No, Jacky," he said, his face flushing.
I looked him full in the eyes: from that moment I had a curious reliance and trust in his shrewd, just, kindly nature, and in his religion, a something below that. If I were dying, I should be glad if Robert Manning would pray for me. I should think his prayers would be heard.
"I will not forget what I dreamed, Robert," I said.
"No, mother. I know."
After that, awhile, I was talking to him of the home he had prepared for his father and me.
"I wanted you just to start anew, with Teddy and the baby, here," he said, lightly.
"And Jacky," I added, looking up at the bright, chubby face.
It grew suddenly crimson, then colorless, then the tears came. There was a strange silence.
"Rob," she whispered, hiding her head sheepishly, "Rob says no."