Something tugged at my heart as
I looked at her. With that little head in the hollow of her arm she was
the eternal mother.

I saw Anthony approaching. He stopped, and I caught his words. "You must
come now, Nancy. I am saving a seat for you."

She shook her head, and looked down at the child. "I told his nurse to
go and he is almost asleep."

He flung himself away from her and came over to me. "I have good seats
for both of you in the enclosure. But Nancy won't go."

I rose and went with him, although I should have been content to sit
there by the fish pond and feast my eyes on Nancy.

"It is perfectly silly of her to stay," Anthony fumed as we walked on
together.

"But she loves the children."

"I hate children."

I am sure that he did not mean it. What he hated was the fact that the
child had for the moment held Nancy from him. It was as if, looking
forward into the future, he could see like moments, and set himself
against the thought of any interruption of what might be otherwise an
untrammeled and independent partnership. He had, I think, little
jealousy where men were concerned. He was willing to give Nancy the
reins and let her go, believing that she would inevitably come back to
him. He was not, perhaps, so willing to trust her with ties which might
prove more absorbing than himself.

If I had not had Olaf's letter, I might not have weighed Anthony's
attitude so carefully, but against those burning words and their
comprehension of the divinity and beauty of my Nancy's nature, Anthony's
querulous complaint struck cold.

I think it was then, as we walked toward the inclosure, that I made
up my mind to let Nancy hear what Olaf had to say to her.

She stayed out late that night--there was a dinner and a dance--and
Anthony brought her home. I confess that I felt like a traitor as I
heard the murmur of his voice in the hall.

But when he had gone, and Nancy passed my door on her way to her room, I
called her, and she came in.

I was in bed, and I had the letter in my hand. "I want you to read it,"
I said. "It is from Olaf Thoresen."

She looked at it, and asked, "When did it come?"

"Two months ago. The day that he left."

"Why haven't you shown it to me?"

"I couldn't make up my mind. I do not know even now that I am right in
letting you see it. But I feel that you have a right to see it. It is
you who must answer it. Not I."

When she had gone, I turned to the chapter in my book where Becky