“Bartley,” she said, “I'm going to ask a great favor of you.” “There's nothing that I can do that _I_ shall think a favor, darling!” he cried, lifting his face to look into hers. “Write for mother to come. I want her!” “Why, of course.” Marcia continued to look at him, and kept the quivering hold she had laid of his hand when he raised his head. “Was that all?” She was silent, and he added, “I will ask your father to come with her.” She hid her face for the space of one sob. “I wanted you to offer.” “Why, of course! of course!” he replied. She did not acknowledge his magnanimity directly, but she lifted the coverlet and showed him the little head on her arm, and the little creased and crumpled face. “Pretty?” she asked. “Bring me the letter before you send it.--Yes, that is just right,--perfect!” she sighed, when he came back and read the letter to her; and she fell away to happy sleep. Her father answered that he would come with her mother as soon as he got the better of a cold he had taken. It was now well into the winter, and the journey must have seemed more formidable in Equity than in Boston. But Bartley was not impatient of his father-in-law's delay, and he set himself cheerfully about consoling Marcia for it. She stole her white, thin hand into his, and now and then gave it a little pressure to accent the points she made in talking. “Father was the first one I thought of--after you, Bartley. It seems to me as if baby came half to show me how unfeeling I had been to him. Of course, I'm not sorry I ran away and asked you to take me back, for I couldn't have had you if I hadn't done it; but I never realized before how cruel it was to father. He always made such a pet of me; and I know that he thought he was acting for the best.” “I knew that _you_ were,” said Bartley, fervently. “What sweet things you always say to me!” she murmured. “But don't you see, Bartley, that I didn't think enough of him? That's what baby seems to have come to teach me.” She pulled a little away on the pillow, so as to fix him more earnestly with her eyes. “If baby should behave so to _you_ when she grew up, I should hate her!” He laughed, and said, “Well, perhaps your mother hates you.” “No, they don't--either of them,” answered Marcia, with a sigh. “And I behaved very stiffly and coldly with him when he came up to see me,--more than I had any need to. I did it for your sake; but he didn't mean any harm to you, he just wanted to make sure that I was safe and well.” “Oh, that's all right, Marsh.” “Yes, I know. But what if he had died!” “Well, he didn't die,” said Bartley, with a smile. “And you've corresponded with them regularly, ever since, and you know they've been getting along all right. And it's going to be altogether different from this out,” he added, leaning back a little weary with a matter in which he could not be expected to take a very cordial interest. “Truly?” she asked, with one of the eagerest of those hand-pressures.