Time has run on. It is just three years from the morning Steve came
home. He was quite ill for awhile after that, and from his feverish
talk Nannie learned several things. In his convalescence they became
acquainted, and Steve felt that his wife's handy, pretty nursing was
the sweetest experience he had ever known.
Shortly after he was on his feet again Nannie returned from
Constance's, whither she had run of an errand one morning, with a
great distress working on her face.
She entered the study, where Steve sat at his desk writing, and tried
to speak, but words failed her, and she sobbed instead.
Steve went to her quickly, and his gentle face and manner were
eloquent with concern and sympathy.
"Why, my dear, what _has_ happened?"
"It's the little baby! She's been _so_ ill all night! She can't live!"
"Oh, my dear! Oh, that is too sad!" and Steve's face flushed and
quivered.
"You must come right back with me, Steve; they are in such grief."
They went in without pausing to ring and tiptoed their way to
Constance's room. The house was very still.
In response to their soft tap Randolph opened the door. When he saw
Steve he broke into a great sob and laid his head on the shoulder of
the dear friend of olden days.
"Oh, is she gone?" cried Nannie, entering the room.
Constance nodded and turned away, but Nannie burst into uncontrollable
grief as she saw the little white-faced figure lying in the crib.
"I never want a child!" cried Nannie passionately. "If God can be so
cruel as to take her, I never want one!"
It was Constance who was forced to comfort.
"Don't say that, dear," she urged gently. "I don't understand why we
couldn't keep her, but I _know_ that God is good. And we'd rather have
her this way than never to have held our own little baby----"
But here she broke down and wept convulsively over the tiny crib.
And Steve and Nannie wept as they went homeward together hand in hand.
There is another baby there now--a jolly, roystering little fellow,
just one year old to-day, on his mother's birthday, and a very
precious little man he is; but the dear little girl who just alighted
in their arms long enough to lay hold upon their heartstrings and then
flew away with the other angels is not forgotten.
Randolph stepped over to Steve's desk this morning to ask if he and
Nannie would be sure to come in the evening to celebrate the double
birthday.
"If it's at all clear we will, old man, and gladly," said Steve, "but
it looks to me as if a big storm were brewing."
"Well, I hope you can come. We think a deal of these anniversaries.
Each one of 'em marks off a happy year, I tell you, old man."
"No doubt," said Steve gently.
"And the years have been successful, too," continued Randolph. "On the
whole--to speak between friends--I've managed pretty well, I think."
"Pretty well with one," said Steve, and there was a slight gleam in
his eye as he recalled Randolph's bachelor boast that he could manage
forty women. "Now for the thirty-nine."
"Steve," said Randolph, "you're a good fellow, but you'll have to let
up on that forty. I had sense enough, after all, to marry only one of
them, and occasionally I have my doubts--looks a little as if even
that one managed me. Just you drop the thirty-nine. You're using the
poker too freely."
And then they fell to talking about how warm it was on this same day
three years ago.
Steve was right, for that afternoon it began to snow and it forgot to
stop. He had hard work to get home and still harder to get out and
attend to the little stock. The chickens, he found, had had the sense
to go to roost before time; both Brownie and the cat were safe indoor;
they could look out for themselves, but the gentle, fawn-like Jersey
(quite a different animal from the wild-eyed beast of three years
agone) had expectations, and she must needs receive especial care.
After Steve had fed her and seen that she was comfortable for the
night, he made his way into the house with a feeling that only a very
happy man can understand.
Nannie was busy upstairs and called to him not to come up, as she had
a surprise in store. He was to stir the fire and set her chair, which
she would fill directly, and Steve had done all this and now was
walking about the room, which was bright and pretty in the firelight,
handling the books and magazines, trying a chord or two on the piano,
and looking occasionally from the windows out into the night.
That was wild enough, what with wind, and ice, and snow. Every now
and then the little house shuddered in the blast, which was shrieking
in the chimneys. The window glass was bearded with snow, which melted
here and there and ran for a little space; then, lest one should fancy
the weather were shedding repentant tears, it stiffened into ice
straightway. Down at the foot of the bluff the lake was booming; there
was something to make the blood run cold about its mighty passion. One
thought of the boats at its mercy that night and whispered, God help
them!
There, in the center of it all, 'neath the trees that were clashing
arms with one another in the storm, stood the snug little home, with
the study, over whose pictured walls the cheery, flickering light
played at glow and shadow. And there, close to the merry blaze, poker
in hand, sat Steve, as happy, as well content a man as you'd find,
though you looked far and wide. Brownie occupied the other chair, and
it appeared that he had much to say. Nannie was singing--singing to
the baby upstairs--and Steve and Brownie hearkened to the pretty
notes.
"You hear that, sir?" asked Brownie, with his head slightly tilted and
cocked on one side.
Steve poked assent at the fire.
"You didn't think much of her at one time, did you?"
Steve was gravely shocked and promptly poked remonstrance into the
glowing coals.
"Well, you were rather discouraged about her--you know that,"
persisted Brownie.
Steve looked ashamed, but he was honest enough to nod slightly.
"And now you see there isn't a less wearisome, a nicer, brighter----"
Here Steve interrupted by stabbing the fire's front in a manner
betokening the heartiest concurrence.
Just at this point the subject of these thrusts entered the room.
"No, you don't, Steve--no, sir. You shan't even have a squint till I
get to the fire."
And carefully covering Miss Baby from view, Nannie sidled along to her
chair.
"Now! Ask daddy what he thinks of Miss Loveland!" she exclaimed,
dropping all disguises suddenly and holding the pretty little creature
up in the firelight.
"Oh, Nannie! short clothes!" said Steve with an admiring gasp.
"Yes," said Nannie. "Look at the darling little shoes! See her kick
them! Oh, she's so glad to be rid of those long dresses."
Steve's poker was greatly agitated.
"Nannie," he said, in his quiet way, "I hardly think I can wait much
longer."
"Then you shall have her. Now! Here she goes, daddy!" and Nannie
tossed the baby, all laughter and dimples, into the delighted father's
arms.
True to her sex, she proceeded to grasp all he had--the poker. Steve
held on for safety, but Miss Baby wielded it, and straightway the fire
sent forth a shower of sparks that went frolicking up the chimney in
pure glee.
"Steve," said Nannie, pointing to them, "look! See how prone to sin
you are."
But Steve had no time for his derelictions; he was busy studying the
wonderful baby.
"Nannie," he said, "this marks an epoch; and it's Constance's
birthday."
"It's your birthday, too, you dear old stupid!" laughed Nannie.
"Why, so it is. I never realized before that we were twins."
"He never realizes anything about himself, does he, baby?"
The baby gave a great assenting dab at the fire, necessitating a
prompt examination of all her gear to see if she had caught anywhere.
"He's always thinking of other people and forgetting himself, isn't
he, baby?"
Another dab still bigger and another overlooking.
"Oh, my dear!" stammered Steve.
"Just you hush," said Nannie imperiously. "And he's too foolish and
forgetful of himself to dream that there's a birthday dinner almost
ready in the dining-room and some be-au-ti-ful things under
somebody's plate."
Here Steve was helplessly and hopelessly embarrassed, but Nannie
snatched the baby and went on:
"And he's a regular stupid old know-nothing, isn't he, baby?"
And she made the baby give the poker such a thrust of sympathy that it
stuck fast in the fire.
"Whew!" she exclaimed, jerking it out. "How hot that fire is! I'm
fairly cooked!"
There was a peculiar expression on Steve's face, and all at once
Nannie remembered a newspaper clipping that had dropped from one of
his note-books that day when she cleared his desk. A sudden thought
struck her and caused her to pause with the poker in mid air.
"Have you been cooking me, sir?" she asked in awful tones, taking her
seat as a judge might take his bench.
Steve's color started and a strange smile dawned upon his face. His
very looks convicted him.
Now it was Nannie who was flushing, and so prettily, pursing up her
bewitching mouth in the old way.
"Am I done?" she asked presently in a lower tone.
"To a turn!" he replied.
"Then I think I'll get off the spit, by your leave, sir," she said
with saucy bravado.
And she arose to move back from the fire.
"Steve!" she cried, "you are _devouring_ me!"