then brushing up the few chips on the
hearth.

"I'm beat out," she acknowledged, with a wistful look at him, half
deprecating humility. "I guess I'll poke off to bed."

"Yes," said Tenney, "le's go."

At that minute there was a little waking call from the bedroom off the
sitting-room. Tenney gave her a startled glance.

"Why," he said, "you got him in there?"

They had been used to keeping the baby covered on the kitchen or the
sitting-room couch until their own bedtime and Tenney, preoccupied with
his last chore of reading the Scriptures, had not noticed that his wife
had carried him into the bedroom instead.

"Yes," she said, with a significant quiet. "I thought 'twas full warmer
in the bed. I'm goin' to stay with him."

"In there?" Tenney repeated. "All night?"

She nodded at him. The afternoon brightness was again on her face, and
for an instant he felt afraid of her, she looked so strange. Then he
laughed a little. He thought he understood, and, advancing, put a hand
on her shoulder and spoke in an awkward tenderness.

"Here," said he, "you ain't afraid o' me, be you? Why, I wouldn't no
more lay hands on him----"

He had meant to add that she had reassured him by her disclaimer of the
morning. But he could not quite manage that. Words were not his
servants. They were his enemies, especially at such times as he was mad
with rage. Then they came too fast and got the better of him, and he
could hardly ever remember afterward what they were. Tira slipped from
under his hand and continued her ordered tasks about the room. But she
smiled at him in the friendliest way.

"Oh, no," she said, "I ain't the leastest mite afraid." She laughed a
little, in a manner mystifying to him, for it suddenly seemed to her she
should never be afraid of anything again.

Tenney stood there, his eyes following her as she moved about the room,
and again the thought of her cruelty possessed him. Last of all her
orderly deeds, she lighted a little lamp and set it on the table near
him.

"Don't you forgit to blow it out," she warned him. "I'm terrible afraid
o' fire, these winter nights. I won't put out the big lamp yet. I can
see to undress by it, an' then baby won't wake up."

He took his lamp and set it down again and went to the bedroom door, her
eyes following him.

"I dunno," he said, in a strangled voice, "as there's any need o' that
in there, for folks to tumble over."

He stepped inside, took up the cradle with the