Laban made a dry sound in his throat and it was by a succession of efforts that he could say, “And—and—and—”
“Oh, could you ask, Laban?” she lamented. “You're my husband, don't you know it?” At the sound of her lament a little voice of fear and hope answered from the cabin. The father-hunger came into the man's weak face, making it strong. “Come in and see our baby, Laban.”
She put out her hand to him innocently like a little girl to a little boy, and he took it. “I know it's just for the baby; and I feel to thank you, Nancy,” he said, and together they went into the cabin.
At sight of him the baby crowed recognition. “She knowed you in a minute,” the mother said, and she straightened the skirt of the little one which the father had deranged in lifting the child from the floor. “I don't believe she'll ever forget you; I reckon she won't if I have any say in it. Me and Joey talks about you every night when we're gettin' her to sleep.” She gurgled out a half-sob, half-laugh, as the little one pulled and pushed at his face, which he twisted this way and that, to get her hand in his mouth. “She always cared more for you than she did for me. I'll set you a piece, Laban; I was just going to get me a bite of something; I don't take my meals very regular, with you not here.”
“Well, I am a little hungry with the walk from the Corners, after such an early breakfast.”
“Well, you just keep her.”
“Oh, I'll keep her,” he exulted.
She hustled about the hearth, getting the simple meal, which she made more than she had meant, and they had a joyous strange time together at the leaf she stayed from the well.
He kept the baby in his lap while he ate. Then he walked the floor till she fell asleep in his arms. When he lifted himself from laying her in the rough cradle which he had himself made for her, he said, without looking at the mother, “Now, I must be going, Nancy.”
“Don't go on account of me, Laban,” she said with the same fierce courage she had shown in driving him from her before. “If it's for me—”