It was their first night under his own roof, and he was surprised at
his thrill of boyish agitation. He was not so old, to be sure--his
glass gave him little more than the five-and-thirty years to which
his wife confessed--but he had fancied himself already in the
temperate zone; yet here he was listening for her step with a tender
sense of all it symbolized, with some old trail of verse about the
garlanded nuptial door-posts floating through his enjoyment of the
pleasant room and the good dinner just beyond it.

They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the illness
of Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn's first marriage. The
little girl, at Waythorn's desire, had been transferred to his house
on the day of her mother's wedding, and the doctor, on their
arrival, broke the news that she was ill with typhoid, but declared
that all the symptoms were favorable. Lily could show twelve years
of unblemished health, and the case promised to be a light one. The
nurse spoke as reassuringly, and after a moment of alarm Mrs.
Waythorn had adjusted herself to the situation. She was very fond of
Lily--her affection for the child had perhaps been her decisive
charm in Waythorn's eyes--but she had the perfectly balanced nerves
which her little girl had inherited, and no woman ever wasted less
tissue in unproductive worry. Waythorn was therefore quite prepared
to see her come in presently, a little late because of a last look
at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed as if her good-night kiss
had been laid on the brow of health. Her composure was restful to
him; it acted as ballast to his somewhat unstable sensibilities. As
he pictured her bending over the child's bed he thought how soothing
her presence must be in illness: her very step would prognosticate
recovery.