“What sweet things you always say to me!” she murmured. “But don't you see, Bartley, that I didn't think enough of him? That's what baby seems to have come to teach me.” She pulled a little away on the pillow, so as to fix him more earnestly with her eyes. “If baby should behave so to you when she grew up, I should hate her!”
He laughed, and said, “Well, perhaps your mother hates you.”
“No, they don't—either of them,” answered Marcia, with a sigh. “And I behaved very stiffly and coldly with him when he came up to see me,—more than I had any need to. I did it for your sake; but he didn't mean any harm to you, he just wanted to make sure that I was safe and well.”
“Oh, that's all right, Marsh.”
“Yes, I know. But what if he had died!”
“Well, he didn't die,” said Bartley, with a smile. “And you've corresponded with them regularly, ever since, and you know they've been getting along all right. And it's going to be altogether different from this out,” he added, leaning back a little weary with a matter in which he could not be expected to take a very cordial interest.
“Truly?” she asked, with one of the eagerest of those hand-pressures.
“It won't be my fault if it isn't,” he replied, with a yawn.
“How good you are, Bartley!” she said, with an admiring look, as if it were the goodness of God she was praising.
Bartley released himself, and went to the new crib, in which the baby lay, and with his hands in his pockets stood looking down at it with a curious smile.