“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Elizabeth, softly, and busied herself with walking baby up and down the room, hushing it on her shoulder.  If in the dim light tears fell on its puny face, God help her, poor Elizabeth!

Mrs. Ascott made such an excellent recovery that in three weeks’ time nobody was the least anxious about her, and Mr. Ascott arranged to start on a business journey to Edinburgh; promising, however, to be back in three days for the Christmas dinner, which was to be a grand celebration.  Miss Leaf and Miss Hilary were to appear thereat in their wedding dresses; and Mrs. Ascott herself took the most vital interest in Johanna’s having a new cap for the occasion.  Nay, she insisted upon ordering it from her own milliner, and having it made of the most beautiful lace—­the “sweetest” old lady’s cap that could possibly be invented.

Evidently this wonderful baby had opened all hearts, and drawn every natural tie closer.  Selina, lying on the sofa, in her graceful white wrapper, and her neat close cap, looked so young, so pretty, and, above all, so exceedingly gentle and motherly, that her sisters’ hearts were full to overflowing.  They acknowledged that happiness, like misery, was often brought about in a fashion totally unforeseen and incredible.  Who would have thought, for instance, on that wretched night when Mr. Ascott came to Hilary at Kensington, or on that dreary heartless wedding-day, that they should ever have been sitting in Selina’s room so merry and comfortable, admiring the baby, and on the friendliest terms with baby’s papa?

“Papa” is a magical word, and let married people have fallen ever so wide asunder, the thought, “my child’s mother,” “my baby’s father,” must in some degree bridge the gulf between them.  When Peter Ascott was seen stooping, awkwardly enough, over his son’s cradle, poking his dumpy fingers into each tiny cheek in a half-alarmed, half-investigating manner, as if he wondered how it had all come about, but, on the whole, was rather pleased than otherwise—­the good angel of the household might have stood by and smiled, trusting that the ghastly skeleton therein might in time crumble away into harmless dust, under the sacred touch of infant fingers.

The husband and wife took a kindly, even affectionate leave of one another.  Mrs. Ascott called him “Peter,” and begged him to take care of himself, and wrap up well that cold night.  And when he was gone, and her sisters also, she lay on her sofa with her eyes open, thinking.  What sort of thoughts they were, whether repentant or hopeful, solemn or tender, whether they might have passed away and been forgotten, or how far they might have influenced her life to come, none knew, and none ever did know.

When there came a knock at the door, and a message for Elizabeth, Mrs. Ascott suddenly overheard it and turned round.

“Who is wanting you?  Tom Cliffe?  Isn’t that the young man you are to be married to?  Go down to him at once.  And stay, Elizabeth, as it’s such a bitter night, take him for half an hour into the housekeeper’s room.  Send her up stairs, and tell her I wished it, though I don’t allow ‘followers.’ "