“Why, Jeanette baby, don’t you want to go to Aunty Em?”

“No!  No!  No!” Trying to ingratiate herself back into Mr. Jett’s arms.

“Baby, you’ll take cold.  Come under covers with Aunty Em?”

“No!  No!  No!  Take me back.”

“Oh, Jeanette, that isn’t nice!  What ails the child?  She’s always so eager to come to me.  Shame on Jeanette!  Come, baby, to Aunty Em?”

“No!  No!  No!  My mamma says you’re crazy.  Take me back—­take me.”

For a frozen moment Henry regarded his wife above the glittering fluff of little-girl curls.  It seemed to him he could almost see her face become smaller, like a bit of ice under sun.

“Naughty little Jeanette,” he said, shouldering her and carrying her down the stairs; “naughty little girl.”

When he returned his wife was sitting locked in the attitude in which he had left her.

“Henry!” she whispered, reaching out and closing her hand over his so that the nails bit in.  “Not that, Henry!  Tell me not that!”

“Why, Em,” he said, sitting down and trembling, “I’m surprised at you, listening to baby talk!  Why, Em, I’m surprised at you!”

She leaned over, shaking him by the shoulder.

“I know.  They’re saying it about me.  I’m not that, Henry.  I swear I’m not that!  Always protect me against their saying that, Henry.  Not crazy—­not that!  It’s natural for me to feel queer at times—­now.  Every woman in this house who says—­that—­about me has had her nervous feelings.  It’s not quite so easy for me, as if I were a bit younger.  That’s all.  The doctor said that.  But nothing to worry about.  Mrs. Peopping had Jeanette—­Oh, Henry promise me you’ll always protect me against their saying that!  I’m not that—­I swear to you, Henry—­not that!”

“I know you’re not, Emmy.  It’s too horrible and too ridiculous to talk about.  Pshaw—­pshaw!”

“You do know I’m not, don’t you?  Tell me again you do know.”

“I do.  Do.”

“And you’ll always protect me against anyone saying it?  They’ll believe you, Henry, not me.  Promise me to protect me against them, Henry.  Promise to protect me against our little Ann Elizabeth ever thinking that of—­of her mother.”

“Why, Emmy!” he said.  “Why, Emmy!  I just promise a thousand times—­” and could not go on, working his mouth rather foolishly as if he had not teeth and were rubbing empty gums together.

But through her hot gaze of tears she saw and understood and, satisfied, rubbed her cheek against his arm.

The rest is cataclysmic.

Returning home one evening in a nice glow from a January out-of-doors, his mustache glistening with little frozen drops and his hands (he never wore gloves) unbending of cold, Mrs. Jett rose at her husband’s entrance from her low chair beside the lamp.

“Well, well!” he said, exhaling heartily, the scent of violet denying the pungency of fish and the pungency of fish denying the scent of violet.  “How’s the busy bee this evening?”