“And here she comes!” he said, as the nurse drew the cradle from an adjoining room, so lightly that the little creature did not move or stir in her sweet sleep.  And when his wife threw back the light covering, and said, “Isn’t she beautiful, Willis?” as only a young mother could say it, it must be confessed that he thought himself a very fortunate man to have two such treasures, and he could not help saying so.

“I love to have the little thing where I can watch her myself; so, when there is no one in, nurse spares her to me, and we sit here as cosily as possible.  I could watch her for hours.  Sometimes she does not move, and then she will smile so sweetly in her sleep—­and only look at those dear little dimpled hands, Willis!”

And yet Willis took the coat when it came, though with a guilty feeling at heart.  The greater the self-reproach, the more the pride that arose to combat it; and he drew on his gloves resolutely.

“Don’t sit up for me,” he said, as he had said a hundred times before; and in a moment the hall door shut with a clang, as he passed into the street.  Catherine echoed the sound with a half sigh.  The morning’s conversation rose to her recollection, and she had hoped, she scarce knew why, that Willis would remain with her that evening.  But she checked the regretful reverie, and took up the pretty little sock she was knitting for Gertrude, and soon became engrossed in counting and all the after mysteries of this truly feminine employment.

Willis was ill at ease.  He met young Morgan on the steps, and returned his bow very coldly.  His usual companions were absent, and, after haunting the saloon restlessly for an hour, he strolled down to his counting-house.  He knew that the foreign correspondence had just arrived, and, as he expected, his confidential clerk was still at the desk.  And here he found, much to his dismay, that the presence of one of the firm was immediately necessary in Paris, and that, as the partner who usually attended to this branch of the business was ill, the journey would devolve on him.  He was detained until a late hour, and as he turned his steps homeward the scene that he had left there rose vividly to his mind.  He hurried up the steps, hoping to find Catherine still there, but the room was empty, and the fire, glowing redly through the bars of the grate, was the only thing to welcome him.  He stood a long time, leaning his elbow on the marble of the mantel, and thought over many things that had happened within the last few years—­the many happy social evenings he had passed at that very hearth; the unvarying love and constancy of his wife; of his late neglect, for he could call it by no gentler name; and then came the thought that he must leave all this domestic peace, which he had valued so little—­and who knew what might chance before he should return?  He kissed his sleeping wife and child with unwonted tenderness, as he entered their apartment, and thought that they had never been so dear to him before.