“You know I do!” she answered, laughing, but a little shaken by his seriousness.

“You think god manages things this way?”

“John, don’t talk like a high school boy!”

“I suppose it sounds that way,” he said mildly, and he rose suddenly from his chair.  “Well, I have to go!” He looked at her keenly.  “But you don’t look very well, Martie,” he said.  “You’ve no colour at all.  Is it the weather?”

“John, what a baby you are!” But Martie was amazed, under her flush of laughter, at his simplicity.  Could it be possible that he did not know?  “I am expecting something very precious here one of these days,” she said.  He looked at her with a polite smile, entirely uncomprehending.  “Surely you know that we—­that I—­am going to have another baby, John?” she asked.

She saw the muscles of his face stiffen, and the blood rise.  He looked at her steadily.  A curious silence hung between them.

“Didn’t you know?” Martie pursued lightly.

“No,” he said at last thickly, “I didn’t know.”  He gave her a look almost frightening in its wildness; shot to the heart, he might have managed just such a smile.  He made a frantic gesture with his hands.  “Of course—­” he said at random.  “Of course—­a baby!” He walked across the room to look at a picture on the wall.  “That’s rather—­ pretty!” he said in a suffocating voice.  Suddenly he came back, and sat close beside her; his face was pale.  “Martie,” he said pitifully, “it’s dangerous for you—­you’re not strong, and if you—­ if you die, you know—–­You look pale now, and you’re so thin.  I don’t know anything about it, but I wish it was over!”

Tears sprang to Martie’s eyes, but they were tears of exquisite joy.  She laid a warm hand over his.

“Why, John, dear, there’s no danger!”

“Isn’t there?” he asked doubtfully.

“Not the least, you goose!  I’m ever so glad and proud about it—­ don’t look so woe-begone!”

Their hands were tightly locked:  her face was radiant as she smiled up at him.

“It all works out, John—­the furniture clerking, you know, and the being poor, and all that!”

“Sure it does!”

“Other people have succeeded in spite of it, I mean, so why not you and I?”

“Of course, they’re not born rich and successful,” he submitted thoughtfully.

“Look at Lincoln—­and Napoleon!” Martie said hardily.

John scowled down at the hand he held.

“Well, it’s easier for some people than others,” he stated firmly.  “Lincoln may have had to split rails for his supper—­what do you split rails for, anyway?” he interrupted himself to ask, suddenly diverted.

“Fences, I guess!” Martie offered, on a gale of laughter.

“Well, whatever it was.  But I don’t see what they needed so many fences for!  But anyway, being poor or rich doesn’t seem to matter half as much as some other things!  And now I’m going.  Good-bye, Martie.”