“I have changed,” said Anthony. “I feel it myself. His death made a great void in my life. I felt that I had been left with a wound that would never heal. And then one day the thought came to me--it can hardly be called a thought. I heard his very voice speaking to me, with just that little note of irritation in it that always came to him when he was arguing and got excited. ‘I am not dead,’ he said. ‘How foolishly you are talking. How can I be dead while you are thinking of me--while you still love me and are wanting me. Who wants the dead? It is because you know I live, and that I love you, and always shall, that you want me. I am not dead. I am with you.’” “Yes,” said Mowbray after a little pause, “he loved you very dearly. I was puzzled at first because I thought you so opposite to one another. But now I know that it was my mistake.” They did not talk during the short remainder of their walk. At the gate of The Priory the old gentleman stopped and turned. “Kiss me, Anthony,” he said, “there’s nobody about.” Anthony did so. It seemed quite natural somehow. He watched Mr. Mowbray pass up the flagged causeway to the door and then went back to his work. Betty had been quite frank with him, or so he had thought. “It’s fortunate we didn’t marry,” she said. “What a muddle it would have ended in--or else a tragedy. Do you remember that talk we had one evening?” “Yes,” he answered. “You said that if you ever married it would be a man who would ‘like’ you--think of you as a friend, a comrade.” “I know,” she laughed. “To be candid, I had you in my mind at the moment. I thought that you would always be so sane--the sort of husband one could rely upon never to kick over the traces. Curious how little we know one another.” “Would you really have been satisfied?” he asked, “when it came to the point. Would not you have demanded love as your right?” “I don’t think so,” she answered, musing. “I suppose the explanation is that a woman’s love is maternal rather than sexual. It is the home she is thinking of more than the lover. Of course, I don’t mean in every case. There are women for whom their exists one particular He, or no other. But I fancy they are rare.” “I wonder sometimes,” he said, “what would have happened to me if I’d never met her. I suppose I should have gone on being quite happy and contented.” “There are finer things than happiness,” she answered. A child was born to them late in the year. Anthony had never seen a baby before, not at close quarters. In his secret heart, he was disappointed that it was not more beautiful. But as the days went by it seemed to him that this defect was passing away. He judged it to be a very serious baby. It had large round serious eyes. Even its smile was thoughtful. They called it John Anthony.