But that wasn’t Betsy’s way—to chill John with an argument so irrefutable—and at such a distance! She flung her basket away, snatched the baby from the cradle, and, next, John had his whole family in his lap. His wife was laughing, the baby was blinking, and John was very happy. “Roof!”—she was talking to the baby “do you know what that is? _I_ don’t. You haven’t any yet—neither have I. I’ve forgotten it. We are going to have one, of course—after a while—if your papa wants one—_now_—if he can’t wait—a minute—” John put his hand on her mouth. She bit it and he kissed her. Then they were tangled in an embrace for a moment—the baby getting the worst of it. “Look here,” said Betsy, then, “don’t you think you’ve got enough with us? Roof!” “Yes,” confessed John, shamefacedly, “I don’t want you to bother no more about it.” “I won’t,” said Betsy. “We’ll have it—some day!” declared John, in his lazy way, “without any bothering!” II HAPPINESS IS BETTER THAN CHURCH Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother. But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like their father. “You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and _good_ like me.” Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely. There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey! And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it would never end. And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there. But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat. “John! I’m glad they’re _not_ girls—_any_ of them.” For this used to be a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls. “Yes,” said John, meekly. She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him. “They’d git married if they were. Girls always do. But boys often have better sense. Ours have, anyhow.” “We got married,” ventured John. “Well—_of course_!” said Betsy, choking him. But the thing was in her mind all the week. There seemed danger. The next Sunday, at the table, she said: “Look here! Why don’t some of yous git—git—married?” Her hand shook as she dealt out the gravy and waited for their answer.