This baby was the fourth child that Bessie Maynard had lost. After the first, no child of hers had lived to reach its third year. Each one had been carried away by a sudden distemper. The first death had been announced to John Maynard's aunt in a long letter from Bessie, full of a healthy sorrow, every line stained with tears. John had written the next time, his wife being too much worn out with watching and grief to write. At the third death, there came a line from Bessie: “My little boy is gone, Aunt Nancy. What do you suppose God means?”
Aunt Nancy had wondered somewhat over this strange missive, but had decided that, whatever God meant, Bessie meant resignation.
But now, as she marked her niece's changed face and manner, and recollected that laconic note, she was forced to give up the comforting thought. There might be endurance, but there was no resignation in that face.
The sense of distance and strangeness grew on her, though Bessie began to help her get supper ready, drawing out and laying the table as though she had done it every day of her life, and even remembering the cup that had been hers, and the little iron rack on which she used to set the teapot. “Jack found the brass-headed nail this hangs on miles back in the woods,” she said. “It's a wonder how it got there.”
“Why didn't Jack come with you?” asked Aunt Nancy, catching at the opportunity to say something personal.
A deep blush ran up Bessie's face at being so caught, but her hesitation was only momentary.
“He is too busy,” she answered briefly.
“But I should think he might take a rest now and then,” persisted her aunt.
Bessie gave a short laugh that was not without bitterness.
“What rest can a man take when he has a steam-engine spouting carbonic acid in one side of his brain, a flying-machine in the other side, and a wheel in perpetual motion between them? John is given over to [pg 221] metals and motions. I might as well have a locomotive for a husband. Shall I take up the applesauce in this bowl?”