As if, in this new future, there were less need of fear than in the future which had sought to "try to be happy and keep ourselves happy."
They looked down where their house would be, near the gate of the coming dawn. And—as two others in such case might have seen—it was as if they were the genii of their own mysterious future, a future whose solution trembled very near. For with the charge of the child had come a courage, even as the dead woman had known, when she thought of her charge of Allen, that she was not afraid to die.
"Allen," said Chris, stumblingly, "it don't seem as if we could get like the Howells' an' the Hubbelthwaits and them. Somehow it don't seem as if we could!"
"No," said Allen, "we couldn't. That's so, ain't it?"
Above little John's head their eyes met in a kind of new betrothal, new marriage, new birth. But when he would have driven on, Allen pulled at the reins again, and,
"Chrissie," he said suddenly, "if afterwards—there should be anybody—else. I mean for us. Would—would you keep on lovin' this little kiddie, too?"
She met his eyes bravely, sweetly.
"Well, you Silly," she said, "of course I would!"
At which Allen laughed joyously, confidently.
"Why, Chris," he cried, "we're married! For always an' always. An' here's this little old man to see to. Who's afraid?"