The Rector had dropped his weekly review upon his knees and was staring
at her angrily.
"I really can't tell," he continued, "what you can have been thinking
about to let such a ridiculous thing come to pass. What are you thinking
about now?"
"Well, dear," confessed the little woman shamedly, "I was thinking of
Baby--of Dora."
"Thought so," he snapped, with a little laugh, returning to his paper
with a keen interest. But he did not seem to be following the printed
lines.
"I suppose she was all right when you were up just now!" he said
carelessly after a moment, and without lowering his paper.
"Yes, dear," the lady replied. "She was asleep."
And this young mother of forty smiled softly to herself as if at some
recollection.
This happiness had come late, as happiness must for us to value it fully,
and Mrs. Glynde's somewhat old-fashioned Christianity was of that school
which seeks to depreciate by hook or by crook the enjoyment of those
sparse goods that the gods send us.
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