She had insisted upon this before her marriage, for she laughingly
said, "No wife ever gets her way afterwards."
"I'm not good at butter-making, Sam," she said, "but I _can_ make
money teaching, and for this first year _I_ pay the rent." And she
did.
And the sweet, brief year swung on through its seasons, until
one brown September morning the faint cry of a little human lamb
floated through the open window of the small gray house on the
back lots. Sam did not go to Willson's to work that day, but
stayed home, playing the part of a big, joyful, clumsy nurse, his
roughened hands gentle and loving, his big rugged heart bursting
with happiness. It was twilight, and the gray shadows were creeping
into the bare little room, touching with feathery fingers a tangled
mop of yellow curls that aureoled a pillowed head that was not now
filled with thoughts of Tennyson and Emerson and frilly muslin
shirtwaists. That pretty head held but two realities--Sammy,
whistling robin-like as he made tea in the kitchen, and the little
human lamb hugged up on her arm.
But suddenly the whistling ceased, and Sammy's voice, thrilling
with joy, exclaimed:
"Oh, mother!"
"Mrs. Willson sent word to me. Your father's gone to the
village, and I ran away, Sammy boy," whispered Mrs.
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