But today, after his labour in the snow, brain and nerves were quiescent. He would have liked to put more coal on the stove and then stretch out on the broken-down divan for a long sleep. But he knew he had to get the kitchen ready for Laura Lou, and after that … there was always an "after" to every job, he mused impatiently. He leaned the shovel against the door, stamped the snow off his feet, and went in.

Laura Lou was not in the kitchen. The fire was unlit, and no preparations had been made for their simple breakfast. He called out her name. She did not answer; and thinking somewhat resentfully of his hard work in the snow while she slept warm between the sheets, he opened the bedroom door. She lay where he had left her; her head was turned away, facing the wall, and the blankets and his old overcoat were drawn up to her chin.

"Laura Lou!" he called again. She stirred and slowly turned to him.

"What's the matter? Are you sick?" he exclaimed; for her face wore the same painful smile which had struck him on the day when he had found her pushing the mysterious rags into the kitchen fire.

"Time to get up?" she asked in a scarcely audible whisper.

He sat down on the bed and took her hand; it was dry and trembling. His heart began to beat with apprehension. "Do you feel as if you were too tired to get up?"

"Yes, I'm tired."

"See here, Laura Lou—" He slipped down on his knees, and slid his arm under her thin back. "Why is it you always feel so tired?" Her eyes, which were fixed on his, widened like a suspicious animal's, and he drew her closer to whisper: "Is it—it isn't because you're going to have a baby?"

She started in his arms, and drew back a little instead of yielding to his embrace. Her tongue ran furtively over her dry lips, as if to moisten them before she spoke. "A baby—?" she echoed. Vance pressed her tighter.

"I'd—we'll manage somehow; you'll see! I guess it would be great, wouldn't it? Wouldn't you be less lonely, sweet?" he hurried on, stringing random words together to hide the confused rush of his feelings.

She drew her head back, and her free hand, slipping from under the blankets, pushed the hair off his forehead. "Poor old Vanny," she whispered.

"Were you afraid I'd be bothered if you told me? Is that why—?" She made a faint negative motion.

"What was it then, dear? Why didn't you tell me?"