her concernedly, until she asked to be put back into bed again. That
was on a Sunday.

The Sunday marked his memory. It disappointed him so bitterly to find
that Marie was not stronger. After all the chickens and grapes, and
doctors' and nurses' fees, she was not strong; and what could he do
more for her? He was not a rich man. After the drain of all this they
must live more steadily even than before; he could not waft her
_and_ the baby away to some warm south-coast resort to finish her
convalescence; he could not take her for long motoring week-ends.

In a week the nurse would go. Would Marie be ready for her to go? If
not, could Osborn keep her longer?

He knew he could not. There was only a sum of twelve or thirteen
pounds left from the twenty which had represented the nest-egg which
he had when he married; five of those pounds the doctor would take;
six of them the nurse would take. He tried to arrange the disposal of
his salary afresh, and could do no more than cut down his weekly
expenditure of ten shillings to five.

But Marie and the baby were worth it all--if only he could get them
alone again.

A week after that the nurse left and Osborn came back to Marie's room.

He looked forward to it; part of the dreadfulness of the past month
had been their separation; now they were to be alone again, without
that anarchic and despotic pack. On the morning, before he left, he
wished the nurse good-bye with a false heartiness and handed her,