ltaneous exclamations.

"I shouldn't think so," said Mary sturdily, and would have added more,
but just at this minute Jinny came out of the house, with the peculiar
noiseless tread she had acquired in moving round an infant's crib; and
Purdy vanished.

Jinny gazed at her sister-in-law with such meaning--that Mary could not
but respond.

"Did you get her safely laid down, dear?"

"Perfectly, Mary! Without even the quiver of an eyelash. You recollect,
I told you yesterday when her little head touched the pillow, she
opened her eyes and looked at me. To-day there was nothing of that
sort. It was quite perfect"; and Jinny's voice thrilled at the
remembrance: it was as if, in continuing to sleep during the transit,
her--or rather John's--tiny daughter had proved herself a marvellous
sagacity.

Mahony gave an impatient shrug in Jinny's direction. But he, too, had
to stand fire: she had been waiting all day for a word with him. The
babe, who was teething, was plagued by various disorders; and Jinny
knew each fresh pin's-head of a spot that joined the rash.

Mahony made light of her fears; then turning to his wife asked her to
hurry on the six-o'clock dinner: he had to see a patient between that
meal and tea. Mary went to make arrangements--Richard always forgot to
mention such things till the last moment--and also to please Jinny by
paying a visit to the baby.

"The angels can't look very different when they sleep, I think,"
murmured its mother, hanging over the couch.

When Mary returned, she found her husband picking caterpillars off the
vine: Long Jim, odd man now about house and garden, was not industrious
enough to keep the pests under. In this brief spell of leisure--such
moments grew ever rarer in Richard's life--husband and wife locked
their arms and paced slowly up and down the verandah. It was late
afternoon on a breathless, pale-skied February day; and the boards of
the flooring gritted with sandy dust beneath their feet.

"He WAS grumpy this afternoon, wasn't he?" said Mary, without preamble.
"But I've noticed once or twice lately that he can't take a joke any
more. He's grown queer altogether. Do you know he's the only person who
still persists in calling me by my old name? He was quite rude about it
when I asked him why. Perhaps he's liverish, from the heat. It might be
a good thing, dear, if you went round and overhauled him. Somehow, it
seems unnatural for Purdy to be bad-tempered."

"It's true he