I started to undress him, still heavy with
slumber. Then she seemed to realize that she was, after all, an
outsider, and slipped out through the door. I was glad she did, for a
minute later Dinkie began to whimper and cry, as any child would with
an empty stomach and an over-draft of sleep. It developed into a good
lusty bawl, which would surely have spoilt the picture to an outsider.
But it did a good turn in keeping me too busy to pump any more brine on
my own part.

When Dinky-Dunk came in I was feeding little Dinkie a bowl of hot
tapioca well drowned in cream and sugar. My lord and master took off
his hat--which struck me as funny--and stood regarding us from just
inside the door. He stood there by the door for quite a long while.

"Hadn't I better stay here with you to-night?" he finally asked, in a
voice that didn't sound a bit like his own.

I looked up at him. But he stood well back from the range of the
lamplight and I found it hard to decipher his expression. The one
feeling I was certain of was a vague feeling of disappointment. What
caused it, I could not say. But it was there.

"After what's happened," I told him as quietly as I could, "I think
I'd rather be alone!"

He stood for another moment or two, apparently letting this sink in.
It wasn't until he'd turned and walked out of the door that I realized
the ambiguity of that retort of mine. I was almost prompted to go
after him. But I checked myself by saying: "Well, if the shoe fits,
put it on!" But in my heart of hearts I didn't mean it. I wanted him
to come back, I wanted him to share my happiness with me, to sit and
talk the thing over, to exploit it to the full in a sweet retrospect
of relief, as people seem to want to do after they've safely passed
through great peril.

It wasn't until half an hour later, when Dinkie was sound asleep again
and tucked away in his crib, that I remembered my frantic promises to
God to forgive Dinky-Dunk everything, if He'd only bring my boy back
to me. And there'd been other promises, equally foolish and frantic.
I've been thinking them over, in fact, and I _am_ going to make an
effort to keep them. I'm so happy that it hurts. And when you're
happy, you want other people to be that way, too.

_Wednesday the Third_

Humor is the salt of life. The older I grow the more I realize that
truth. And I'm going to keep more of it, if I can, in the work-room of
my soul. Last night, when