lap, broke open; and my mother-in-law, like Cleopatra in her roses,
stood knee-deep in baby-clothes. In a moment the truth burst upon me. I
was unmanned, limp, and disjointed. The shock was too much! A baby
Butterby!

It is needless for me to remark to married men that the era of
prospective paternity is an era of sacrifice. Why, in this time-honored
custom, so much depends on one's mother-in-law, is a mystery I never
could unravel. I look upon it as one of the unaccountable fatalities of
man, to be placed in the category of grievances with prickly heat. Let
it not be understood that my conduct was absolutely lamb-like. It was
not until solemnly assured the visit would not be prolonged an
unnecessary hour that I finally yielded. I think during that time I had
a meaner opinion of my own importance than at any other period of my
life. My domestic career resembled that of a child guilty of an
irreparable wrong and tolerated only through dire necessity. Indeed, had
Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk been a modern Rachel, and I the ruthless
destroyer of her household, her conduct toward me could not have
exhibited more injured resignation. I somehow grew to _feel_ guilty, and
it was only at rare intervals I mustered courage to look either her or
Malinda Jane in the face.

The anticipated addition to the family brought an immediate addition to
our furniture. The way the chairs multiplied was marvelous, and the
number of sofas that accumulated in our parlor would have been
gratifying to a Grand Turk. We suddenly grew plethoric in wash-stands,
and appeared to possess armoires and bureaus in quantities and varieties
sufficient (as the advertisements say) to suit the most fastidious
taste. Even the bath-room did not seem to be neglected, and a modest
effort was made to furnish the back gallery. One day I was astonished to