“Of several others as well, beside her, I’ll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte. “Probably not,” said I, and continued. “A dear little baby was born here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling little brother into my arms—” “I’ll bet it’s _his_,” cried Mrs. Goyte. “No,” I said. “It’s her mother’s.” “Don’t you believe it,” she cried. “It’s a blind. You mark, it’s her own right enough—and his.” “No,” I said, “it’s her mother’s.” “He has sweet smiling eyes, but not like your beautiful English eyes—” She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with her hand. “I’m forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said. “Aren’t his eyes beautiful?” I asked. “Oh, yes—_very!_ Go on!—_Joey, dear, dee-urr, Joey!_”—this to the peacock. —“Er—We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here to see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred so that we shall never forget you—” “Of course it’s his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte. “No,” I said. “It’s the mother’s.” Er—“My mother is very well. My father came home yesterday—on leave. He is delighted with his son, my little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never forget. I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in England, and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your dear mother and father? I am so happy that your wound is better, and that you can nearly walk—” “How did he find his dear _wife!_” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!” “We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you will forget the family you served so well—” “A bit too well—eh, _Joey!_” cried the wife. “If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The little Alfred is a great comfort to me. I hold him to my breast and think of the big, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of suffering were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for ever.” “Oh, but isn’t it a shame, to take a poor girl in like that!” cried Mrs. Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I call it beastly, I do.” “You don’t know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to fall in love with him?” “He could have helped it if he’d wanted.” “Well,” I said, “we aren’t all heroes.” “Oh, but that’s different! The big, good Alfred!—did ever you hear such tommy-rot in your life! Go on—what does she say at the end?”