ed Marie by the open windows of the pale
sitting-room--which they could use again with perfect economy during
the summer weather--Mrs. Amber was well content with the way of
things. She knitted placidly for baby George all the while, and Marie,
who hated knitting, sewed for him.

They were evenings such as Mrs. Amber the young wife used to spend
with her own mother, while young Mr. Amber betook himself to the
strange and unexplained haunts of men.

And on one of these evenings, while the weather was still warm enough
to sit looking out into the darkness through the opened windows, but
when an autumn haze had begun to hang again about the night, Marie had
something to tell her mother, which had blanched her cheek and
moistened her eyes all day.

"Mother, I don't know _what_ you'll think, but--I'm going to have
another baby."

"Oh--my--dear!" said Mrs. Amber.

The two women gazed into each other's eyes, and while a half-pleased
expression stole through the solicitude in Mrs. Amber's, Marie's were
wide with fear.

"Are you sure, duck?" said the elder woman, her knitting dropped in
her lap.

"Sure," Marie murmured hoarsely. "I've been afraid--and I waited
before I told you. But I'm sure. It--it'll be next summer--in the hot
weather, just when we'd have been going away to the sea. We shan't be
able to afford to go to Littlehampton next year."

"An only child," said Mrs. Amber comfortingly, "is a mistake. It's
almost cruel to have an only child. You'll be much better with two
than one."

"How can you say so? All that to go through again--"

"Oh, duck, I know! But it won't be so bad next time; anyone'll tell
you that. Ask your doctor."

"I shan't have the doctor till I'm obliged."

"I'm sure Osborn would wish you to--"

"How do you know what Osborn would wish?" And she said as so many
rebellious women have said before her: "He promised I should never
have another. He was crying. I've never told you before, but he was.
He cried; and promised me."

"Cried!" Mrs. Amber echoed aghast. "Poor fellow, oh, poor fellow!
Osborn has a very good heart. The dear boy!"

"What about me, mother? Where's your sympathy for me? I cried, too."

"We're different."

"No, we aren't. And he _promised_."

"Oh, my duck," said Mrs. Amber in a voice of confidential bustle,
"that's not to be depended on. Men always promise these things; I've
known it scores of times. But it doesn't do to depend upon them,
love."

"I despise men