“I beg your pardon,” said Halleck. “I had no reason to laugh, either on your account or my own. It's a serious subject.” She did not reply, and he asked, as if she had left the subject, “Do you intend to pass the summer in Boston?”
“No; I'm going down home pretty early, and I wanted to ask your mother what is the best way to put away my winter things.”
“You'll find my mother very good authority on such matters,” said Halleck. Through an obscure association with moths that corrupt, he added, “She's a good authority on church matters, too.”
“I guess I shall talk with her about Flavia,” said Marcia.
Cyrus came out of the house. “Mis' Halleck will be here in a minute. She's got to get red of a lady that's calling, first,” he explained.
“I will leave you, then,” said Halleck, abruptly.
“Good by,” answered Marcia, tranquilly. The baby stirred; she pushed the carriage to and fro, without glancing after him as he walked away.
His mother came down the steps from the house, and kissed Marcia for welcome, and looked under the carriage-top at the sleeping baby. “How she does sleep!” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Marcia, with the proud humility of a mother, who cannot deny the merit of her child, “and she sleeps the whole night through. I'm never up with her. Bartley says she's a perfect Seven-Sleeper. It's a regular joke with him,—her sleeping.”
“Ben was a good baby for sleeping, too,” said Mrs. Halleck, retrospectively emulous. “It's one of the best signs. It shows that the child is strong and healthy.” They went on to talk of their children, and in their community of motherhood they spoke of the young man as if he were still an infant. “He has never been a moment's care to me,” said Mrs. Halleck. “A well baby will be well even in teething.”