Marna threw her a quick glance.

“Ray?” she asked with a world of insinuation.

To Kate’s disgust, her eyes flushed with hot tears.

“He’s waiting to know,” she answered.  “But I—­I don’t think I’m going to be able—­”

“Oh, Kate!” cried Marna in despair.  “How can you feel that way?  Just think—­just think—­” she didn’t finish her sentence.

Instead, she seized little George and began undressing him, her hands lingering over the firm roundness of his body.  He seemed to be anything but sleepy, and when his mother passed him over to her guest, Kate let him clutch her fingers with those tenacious little hands which looked like rose-leaves and clung like briers.  Marna went out of the room to prepare his bedtime bottle, and Kate took advantage of being alone with him to experiment in those joys which his mother had with difficulty refrained from descanting upon.  She kissed him in the back of the neck, and again where his golden curls met his brow—­a brow the color of a rose crystal.  A delicious, indescribable baby odor came up from him, composed of perfumed breath, of clean flannels, and of general adorability.  Suddenly, not knowing she was going to do it, Kate snatched him to her breast, and held him strained to her while he nestled there, eager and completely happy, and over the woman who could not make up her mind about life and her part in it, there swept, in wave after wave, like the south wind blowing over the bleak hills, billows of warm emotion.  Her very finger-tips tingled; soft, wistful, delightful tears flooded her eyes.  Her bosom seemed to lift as the tide lifts to the moon.  She found herself murmuring inarticulate, melodious nothings.  It was a moment of realization.  She was learning what joys could be hers if only—­

Marna came back into the room and took the baby from Kate’s trembling hands.

“Why, dear, you’re not afraid of him, are you?” his mother asked reproachfully.

Kate made no answer, but, dropping a farewell kiss in the crinkly palm of one dimpled hand, she went out to the kitchen, found an apron, and began drawing the water for dinner and dropping Marna’s mayonnaise on the salad.  She must, however, have been sitting for several minutes in the baby’s high chair, staring unseeingly at the wall, when the buzzing of the indicator brought her to her feet.

“It’s George!” cried Marna; and tossing baby and bottle into the cradle, she ran to the door.

Kate hit the kitchen table sharply with a clenched hand.  What was there in the return of a perfectly ordinary man to his home that should cause such excitement in a creature of flame and dew like Marna?

     “Marna with the trees’ life
       In her veins a-stir! 
     Marna of the aspen heart—­”

George came into the kitchen with both hands outstretched.

“Well, it’s good to see you here,” he declared.  “Why don’t you come oftener?  You make Marna so happy.”