Court Netherleigh. Mrs. Henry Wood

is a delicate little thing; all babies are, perhaps: and—and it is as well, you know, to be on the safe side."

      "But I should like a christening. A grand, proper christening; to be held when I get well."

      "Of course. His being baptized now will make no difference to that. I think it must be done, my dear."

      "In this room, then; by my bedside. I should like to see it."

      "You shall. And now, what name?"

      Adela lay back on the pillow, her cheeks slightly flushed with their delicate pink, fresh and pure as the hue of a seashell, her eyes cast upwards in thought.

      "I should like it to have papa's name—George."

      "George Frederick?"

      "Not Frederick: I don't care about the name. George—would you like also your own name—Francis?" she broke off to ask. "George Francis?"

      "Would you care to have it Francis?" he returned, his tone one of emotion, bending over her until his face nearly touched hers.

      She heard the tone, she saw the wet eyelashes shading the wonderful grey eyes, with their yearning, earnest expression. It flashed into her mind to remember how few men were his equals, in looks, in worth, in loving indulgence to a rebellious wife. Adela was not quite proof against her better nature. She was not always hard.

      "Yes, I should; and he has your eyes," she whispered softly, in answer to the question, her own sweet eyes lifted to her husband's.

      "Adela," he breathed, his voice low with its agitation, "you do love me a little! You surely do!"

      "Just a very little—sometimes," she whispered in a half-saucy, half-loving tone. And, when he let his face fall on hers, she for once held it there, and welcomed the kisses from his lips.

      It was all the work of the baby, his child and hers, thought he in his glad heart. But no. Now and again, at rare intervals, Adela did feel a spark of tenderness for him: though instead of letting it come to fruit, of allowing him to see it, she forced it back to the coldness she had taken up, and resolutely steeled her heart against him. Illness had just now somewhat softened her spirit.

      He went round the bed to the side where the baby lay, and looked at it long and earnestly. The doctor had just told him that he did not feel altogether easy on the score of the child; could not be sure that it was likely to live.

      "It is a pale little blossom, Adela. I thought babies were generally red."

      "Frightfully red. I have seen them."

      "Well, we will get it baptized; and then——"

      "What?" she cried—for he had stopped.

      "And then, I was going to say, whether it lives or dies, it will be safe in its Saviour's arms."

      "But you do not think it will die?" she cried, taking up some alarm. "Oh, Francis, I should not like him to die, now he has come!"

      He went round to soothe her, the word "Francis" causing his heart to leap. For in a general way she persistently called him "Mr. Grubb," and not graciously either.

      "My darling, I assure you there is no cause for alarm. So far as I know, the child is not ill; it will, I hope, do well. Dr. Dove does not think him particularly strong—but what can be expected of a two-day-old baby?"

      "True," answered Adela, feeling reassured again. "Francis, I do believe there's mamma coming up! Yes, it is her voice. Mind you don't tell her——"

      Lady Acorn came swiftly in; and, what he was not to tell her, Mr. Grubb never knew. She had dressed early for church, and came round to see Adela on her way to it. Grace was with her. One of the daughters had married during the past year, but it was not Grace. It was Harriet; she had espoused a little Scotch laird, Sir Sandy MacIvor. Peppery and red, in came the countess, for she had just heard something that vexed her; Lady Grace, so calm and still, presented a contrast to her vivacious mother.

      "Well, and now what's this I hear about things not going on well?" began Lady Acorn, subduing her voice with difficulty to the requisition of a sick-room.

      "I am going on very well, mamma—how do you mean?" returned Adela, assuming the doubt must apply to herself. "I have made a famous breakfast. They let me have an egg and some buttered toast."

      "You are all right, Dove says—we have just met him," returned Lady Acorn. "But he does not think the baby is. And you have yourself to thank for it, Adela."

      The pink tinge on Lady Adela's cheeks increased to rose colour, as she armed herself to do battle with her mother.

      "Dove says the baby wants its proper food; not that gruel stuff, or milk-and-water, or whatever rubbish it is, that it is being dosed with. And it is not too late for you to reform, Adela, and do what you ought."

      "It is too late," retorted Adela, with flaming cheeks. "And if you begin about it again, mamma, you will make me ill. Francis"—stretching out her arm for her husband—"don't let me be worried. You promised me, you know."

      With a loving word to his wife, a reassuring pressure of her hand, which he kept in his, he turned to Lady Acorn, and spoke to her in a low tone.

      "Talk to her when she's better and more able to bear it!" repeated the countess, taking up his words aloud. "Why, my good man, it would be too late. And—you do not want to lose your child, I suppose!"

      "Indeed, I do not. But, better lose my child than my wife."

      "She is well enough, and safe enough," spoke the mother, secure in her superior knowledge. "Adela has been an indulged girl all her life, and you, her husband, continue the indulgence. It is not good for her; mark you that. With regard to this caprice of hers, the not undertaking the poor sickly baby, you ought to hold her to her duty, Mr. Grubb, and insist upon her fulfilling it."

      He turned to his wife, his eyes unconsciously wearing a pleading look. "If you would only suffer yourself to be persuaded, Adela! For the child's sake."

      Adela looked at them separately; at her husband, at her mother, at Grace, standing with a cold and impassive countenance that did not betoken approbation; and she took up an idea that they were in league with one another to "hold her to her duty," and enforce obedience. Had not the doctor talked to her that very morning: had not the nurse subsequently presumed to hint at an opinion? Yes, they were all in league together. Lady Adela turned rebellious, and flung her husband's hand away with passionate anger.

      "Why do you come into my room at all?" she exclaimed to him. "You know I do not want you."

      At that moment the nurse looked in from the adjoining apartment and made a sign to Mr. Grubb. He obeyed it at once, taking no notice of his wife or her cruel words.

      "There! you have driven him away now!" cried Lady Acorn, on the eve of an explosion: for she had not seen the summons of the nurse. "You will never go to heaven, Adela, for your wickedness to your husband."

      Adela did not make any answer: perhaps she was feeling a little sorry in her heart: and there ensued a silence. The sweet-toned bells, calling people to service, rang out on the air.

      Mr. Grubb came in again. Feeling more alarmed in his heart at the doctor's words than he allowed to appear, and anxious for the child, he had written a note as the medical man left him, and sent it to a young assistant clergyman whose lodgings were close by. He had now called, on his way to church, ready to perform the ceremony at once if it were wished for, and a servant had come up to inform the nurse.

      "Mr. Wilkinson has called, and is asking after you," began Mr. Grubb to his wife, voice and demeanour a model of quietness, not to say indifference. "It struck me, Adela, that he might as well baptize the child—as he is here. He has time to do it before service."

      "What a hurry you are in!" she returned, ungraciously.

      "As well take the opportunity of his being here, Adela. And then it will be over."

      "Oh,