"And so I do," I cried. "I should be perfectly miserable if I had to give him up just as he is getting teeth, and so wakeful."

"What are you taking to keep up. your strength, dear?" asked Aunty.

"Nothing in particular," I said.

"Very well, it is time the doctor looked after that," she cried. "It really never will do to let you run down in this way. Let me look at baby. Why, my child, his gums need lancing."

"So I have told Ernest half a dozen times," I declared. "But he is always in a hurry, and says another time will do."

"I hope baby won't have convulsions while he is waiting for that other time," said Aunty, looking almost savagely at Martha. I never saw Aunty so nearly out of humor.

At dinner Martha began.

"I think, brother, the baby needs attention. Mrs. Crofton has been here and says so. And she seems to find Katherine run down. I am sure if I had known it I should have taken her in hand and built her up.

But she did not complain."

"She never complains," father here put in, calling all the blood I had into my face, my heart so leaped for joy at his kind word.

Ernest looked at me and caught the illumination of my face.

"You look well, dear," he said. "But if you do not feel so you ought to tell us. As to baby, I will attend to him directly."

So Martha's one word prevailed where my twenty fell to the ground.

Baby is much relieved, and has fallen into a sweet sleep. And I have had time to carry my tired, oppressed heart to my compa.s.sionate Saviour, and to tell Him what I cannot utter to any human ear. How strange it is that when, through many years of leisure and strength, prayer was only a task, it is now my chief solace if I can only s.n.a.t.c.h time for it.

Mrs. Embury has a little daughter. How glad I am for her! She is going to give it my name That is a real pleasure.

JULY 4.-Baby is ten months old to-day, and in spite of everything is bright and well. I have come home to mother. Ernest waked up at last to see that something must be done, and when he is awake he is very wide awake. So he brought me home. Dear mother is perfectly delighted, only she will make an ado about my health. But I feel a good deal better, and think I shall get nicely rested here. How pleasant it is to feel myself watched by friendly eyes, my faults excused and forgiven, and what is best in me called out. I have been writing to Ernest, and have told him honestly how annoyed and pained I was at learning that he had told his secret to Dr. Cabot.

JULY 12.-Ernest writes that he has had no communication with Dr.

Cabot or any one else on subject that, touching his father's honor as it does, he regards as a sacred one.

"You say, dear," be said, "you often say, that I do not understand you. Are you sure that you understand me ?"

Of course I don't. How can I? How can I reconcile his marrying me and professing to do it with delight, with his indifference to my society, his reserve, his carelessness about my health?

But his letters are very kind, and really warmer than he is. I can hardly wait for them, and then, though my pride bids me to be reticent as he is, my heart runs away with me, and I pour out upon him such floods of affection that I am sure he is half drowned.

Mother says baby is splendid.

AUGUST 1.-When I took leave of Ernest I was glad to get away. I thought he would perhaps find after I was gone that he missed something out of his life and would welcome me home with a little of the old love. But I did not dream that he would not find it easy to do without me till summer was over, and when, this morning, he came suddenly upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do nothing but cry in his arms like a tired child.

And now I had the silly triumph of having mother see that he loved me!

"How could you get away?" I asked at last. "And what made you come?

And how long can you stay?"

"I could get away because I would," he replied. "And I came because I wanted to come. And I can stay three days."

Three days of Ernest all to myself!

AUGUST 5.-He has gone, but he has left behind him a happy wife and the memory of three happy days.

After the first joy of our meeting was over, we had time for just such nice long talks as I delight in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a little for my injustice in fancying he had betrayed his father to Dr.

Cabot.

"That is not all," I interrupted, "I even thought you had made a boast of the sacrifices you were making."

"That explains your coldness," he returned.

"My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things in the world!" I cried.

"You were cold, for you and I felt it. Don't you know that we undemonstrative men prefer loving winsome little women like you, just because you are our own opposites? And when the pet kitten turns into a cat with claws-"

"Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To compare me to a cat!"

"You certainly did say some sharp things to me about that time."

"Did I, really? Oh, Ernest, how could I?"

"And it was at a moment when I particularly needed your help. But do not let us dwell upon it. We love each other; we are both trying to do right in all the details of life. I do not think we shall ever get very far apart."

"But, Ernest-tell me-are you very, very much disappointed in me?"

"Disappointed? Why, Katy!"

"Then what did make you seem so indifferent? What made you so slow to observe how miserably I was, as to health?"

"Did I seem indifferent? I am sure I never loved you better. As to your health, I am ashamed of myself. I ought to have seen how feeble you were. But the truth is, I was deceived by your bright ways with baby. For him you were all smiles and gayety."

"That was from principle," I said, and felt a good deal elated as I made the announcement.

"He fell into a fit of musing, and none of my usual devices for arousing him had any effect. I pulled his hair and his ears, and shook him, but he remained unmoved.

At last he began again.

"Perhaps I owe it to you, dear, to tell you that when I brought my father and sister home to live with us, I did not dream how trying a thing it would be to you. I did not know that he was a confirmed invalid, or that she would prove to possess a nature so entirely antagonistic to yours. I thought my father would interest himself in reading, visiting, etc, as he used to do. And I thought Martha's judgment would be of service to you, while her household skill would relieve you of some care. But the whole thing has proved a failure. I am hara.s.sed by the sight of my father, sitting there in his corner so penetrated with gloom; I reproach myself for it, but I almost dread coming home. When a man has been all day encompa.s.sed with sounds and sights of suffering, he naturally longs for cheerful faces and cheerful voices in his own house. Then Martha's pertinacious-I won't say hostility to my little wife-what shall I call it?"

"It is only want of sympathy. She is too really good to be hostile to any one.

"Thank you, my darling," he said, "I believe you do her justice."

"I am afraid I have not been as forbearing with her as I ought," I said. "But, oh, Ernest, it is because I have been jealous of her all along!"

"That is really too absurd."

"You certainly have treated her with more deference than you have me.