ame back from Europe, and the year before Hendrick and I were
married--suddenly there was a rush in the hall, and in came Theodore's
wife--Louison Courtot! It seems Mama had been in touch with her ever
since we returned, but none of us knew that. And she had Leslie with
her, a little thing about four years old--Leslie just faintly remembers
it. She had fought Mama off, at first, about giving her baby up, but now
she was going to be married, and she had finally consented to do as Mama
wanted. Leslie came over to me, and got into my lap, and went to sleep,
I remember. Theodore was terribly ill, and I remember that Louison was
quite gentle with him--surprised us all, in fact, she was so mild. She
had been a wild thing, but always most self-respecting; a prude, in
fact. She even stooped over Theodore, and kissed him good-bye, and then
she knelt down and kissed Leslie, and went away. Mama had intended that
she should always see the child, if she wanted to, but she never came
again. She was married, I know, a few weeks later, and long afterward
Mama told me that she was dead. Ted came to adore the baby, and of
course she's been the greatest comfort to Mama, so it all turns out
right, after all. But we're a sweet family!" finished Annie, rising to
go downstairs. "And now," she added, on the stairs, "if there were to be
serious trouble between Acton and Leslie----Well, it isn't thinkable!"

Leslie herself, charming in a flowered silky dress, with a wide flowery
hat on her yellow hair, was waiting for them in the big, shaded hallway.
The little matron was extremely attractive in her new dignities, and her
babyish face looked more ridiculously youthful than ever as she talked
of "my husband," "my little girl," "my house," and "my attorney."

Leslie, like Annie and Alice, was habitually wrapped in her own affairs,
more absorbed in the question of her own minute troubles than in the
most widespread abuses of the world. When Leslie saw a coat, the
identity of the wearer interested her far less than the primary
considerations of the coat's cut and material, and the secondary
decision whether or not she herself would like such a garment.
Consequently, she glanced but apathetically at Norma; she had seen the
dotted blue swiss before, and the cornflower hat; she had seen Aunt
Annie's French organdie; there was nothing there either to envy or
admire.

"How's the baby, dear; and how's Acton?" Annie asked, perfunctorily.
Leslie sighed.