cry--at--him! One tear weighs more and will hit him harder than an ax.
In the lachrymal ducts with which heaven has blessed you, you are more
surely protected against the fires of your honest indignation than you
are by the fire department against a blaze in the house. And be patient,
also; remember, dear sister, that, though you can cry, he has a
gift--that--enables--him--to--swear! You and other wedded wives very
properly object to swearing, but you will doubtless admit that there
is compensation in that when he does swear in his usual good form
you--never--feel--any--apprehension--about--the--state--of--his--health!

This natural outburst of resentment has not lasted three minutes. Mr.
Y. has returned to his couch, sulky and ashamed. He pretends to sleep
ostentatiously; he--does--not! He is thinking with remarkable intensity
and has an eye open. He sees the slender figure in the dim light,
hanging over the crib, he hears the crooning, he begins to suspect that
there is an alloy in his godlikeness. He looks to earth, listens to the
thin, wailing cries, wonders, regrets, wearies, sleeps. At that moment
Mrs. Y. should fall on her knees and rejoice. She would if she could
leave young Jack or Jill; but she can't--she--never--can. That's what
sent Mr. Y. to sleep. It is just as well perhaps that Mrs. Y. is
unobservant.

A miracle is happening to Mr. Y. In an hour or two, let us say, there is
a new vocal alarm from the crib. Almost with the first suspicion of
fretfulness or pain the mother has heard it. Heaven's mysterious
telepathy of instinct has operated. Between angels, babies and mothers
the distance is no longer than your arm can reach. They understand, feel
and hear each other, and are linked in one chain. So, that, when Mr. Y.
has struggled laboriously awake and wonders if--that--child--is--going--
to--howl--all----. Well, he goes no further. In the dim light he sees