every day, while he is growing to be a great boy, that
you are a good woman."

She said nothing, but stood on the other side of the crib
looking at him.

"Well, what is it?" said George uneasily. "You look at me
as if somebody were dragging you away from me."

She laughed. "What ridiculous fancies you have!" She
came behind him and, drawing his head back, kissed him on
the forehead. "Oh, you poor, foolish boy!" she said.

Lisa sat down to her work, which was the making of
garments for Jacques out of her own gowns. She was an
expert needlewoman, and had already a pile of fantastic
kilts of cloth and velvet.

"Enough to last until he is ten years old," George said
contemptuously. "And you will not leave a gown for
yourself."

"There will be all I shall need," she said.

He turned up the lamp and opened Clara's letter.

Lisa's needle flew through the red and yellow silk. It
was pleasant work; she was doing it skilfully. The fire
warmed her thin blood. She could hear the baby's
regular, soft breathing as it slept. A pleasure that was