er."

"Is she delicate?"

"No. Physically, she's far stronger than Barbara. She's what you call
morally delicate."

She flushed. "What do you mean, Robert?"

"Well--not able to bear things. For instance, we'd a small child staying
with us once. It turned out that she wasn't a nice child at all. We
didn't know it, though. But Janet had a perfect horror of her. It's as
if she had a sort of intuition. She was so unhappy about it that we had
to send the child away."

His forehead was drawn into a frown of worry and perplexity.

"I don't see how she's to grow up. It makes me feel so awfully
responsible. The world isn't an entirely pretty place, you know, and it
seems such a cruel shame to bring a child like that into it. Doesn't
it?"

"Yes."

"Somehow I think you'll understand her, Kitty."

"Yes, Robert, I understand."

She came to him. She laid her hand on the sleeve of his coat, and stood
by him. Her eyes were shining through some dew that was not tears.

"What is it, Kitty?"

"Will you marry me soon?" she said. "Very soon?" she whispered. "I--I
can't wait." She hid her face against his arm.

He thought it was the motherhood in her that was moved, that pleaded,
impatient for its hour.

"Why should we wait? Do you suppose I want to?"

"Hush!" she said. "They're coming."

They came a little solemnly, as beseemed a festival. Janet, in her long
white pinafore, looked more than ever the spiritual thing she was. Her
long brown hair hung down her cheeks, straight and smooth as a parted
veil, sharpening her small face, that flickered as a flame flickers in
troubled air. Beside her little Barbara bloomed and glowed, with cheeks
full-blown, and cropped head flowering into curls that stood on end in
brown tufts, and tawny feathers, and little crests of gold. They took
their places, pensively, at the table.

They had beautiful manners, Robert's children; little exquisite, gentle
ways of approaching and of handling things. They held themselves very
erect, with a secure, diminutive distinction. Kitty's heart sank deeper
as she looked at them. Even Barbara, who was so very young, carried her
small perfections intact through all the spontaneities of her behaviour.

All through tea-time little Barbara, pursued by her dream, talked
incessantly of castles in the sand. And when she was tired of talking
she began to sing.

"Darling," said Jane, "we don't sing at tea-time."

"_I_ do," said little Barbara, and laughed.