“It’s a gay life!” he often said with a twisted smile, “A gay life, what?”

CHAPTER XV

SURRENDER

Grannie Amber was afraid—­she did not know exactly why—­that, the year following the second baby’s arrival, Osborn would forget Marie’s birthday, and she was anxious that it should not be forgotten.  Though she herself had, early in her married life, grown tired and quiet, had early learned to bargain shrewishly with the merchants of the cheaper foods and, after the first three years, had always had her birthdays forgotten; though she had been perfectly willing and ready to urge her daughter into the life domestic, upon a small income, yet regrets took her and sighs, all of perfect resignation, when she saw the darkness under Marie’s eyes, when she stood by in the market and heard her hard chaffering, when she noted the worried crinkles come to stay in her brow.  So that, resolving that Osborn should not forget, natural as it would have been for him, in her judgment, to do so, she trailed his wife’s birthday across his path a fortnight before the actual day, wishing in her thoughtfulness to give him the chance to save from two weeks’ salary for some gift.

She sewed in his presence and, as she sewed, entered into a full explanation of her work:  “This little skirt, Osborn, is for Marie’s birthday.  I hope I’ll get it done in time; there’s only a fortnight, as you know.”

He did not know; the fact had slipped his memory in the ceaseless dream of other liabilities due; but as he looked at Grannie Amber, and the purple silk petticoat which she was finely sewing, he assumed a perfect memory of the occasion.

He answered:  “I was just going to ask Marie what she’d like for it.”

“There are a lot of things she’d like,” Mrs. Amber began.

That same evening, when Grannie Amber had rolled up the purple petticoat into her workbag and departed, he asked Marie, as they sat together over the fire: 

“What would you like for your birthday, my dear?”

A great pleasure shone in her face as she gazed at him.

“Osborn,” she stammered, “can you afford to give me a present at all?”

“I should hope so,” he replied.

An eagerness, which he had not seen there for a long while, invaded her face; it was an eagerness of pleasure at his remembrance, at his wish to be kind and to give her happiness.  About the gift she was not so precious; she hoped it would be small, and she said, almost reverentially: 

“I’d rather you chose, dear.”

“I’d been thinking,” said Osborn, who had thought of it during dinner, “that you might like to be taken out.  How would that do for a present?  Of course I’d like to do both—­to take you out and give you a swagger gift—­but we know it can’t be done, don’t we?”

“Of course.  Of course, my dear.”

“You’d like to go out to dinner?  And perhaps we could go somewhere after, too.”