I feared at first that the new strange love I felt in my heart came only of the fact that the child was Percivale's and mine; but I soon found it had a far deeper source,--that it sprung from the very humanity of the infant woman, yea, from her relation in virtue of that humanity to the Father of all. The fountain _appeared_ in my heart: it arose from an infinite store in the unseen. Soon, however, came jealousy of my love for my baby. I feared lest it should make me--nay, was making me--neglect my husband. The fear first arose in me one morning as I sat with her half dressed on my knees. I was dawdling over her in my fondness, as I used to dawdle over the dressing of my doll, when suddenly I became aware that never once since her arrival had I sat with my husband in his study. A pang of dismay shot through me. "Is this to be a wife?" I said to myself,--"to play with a live love like a dead doll, and forget her husband!" I caught up a blanket from the cradle,--I am not going to throw away that good old word for the ugly outlandish name they give it now, reminding one only of a helmet,--I caught up a blanket from the cradle, I say, wrapped it round the treasure, which was shooting its arms and legs in every direction like a polypus feeling after its food,--and rushed down stairs, and down the precipice into the study. Percivale started up in terror, thinking something fearful had happened, and I was bringing him all that was left of the child. "What--what--what's the matter?" he gasped. I could not while he was thus frightened explain to him what had driven me to him in such alarming haste. "I've brought you the baby to kiss," I said, unfolding the blanket, and holding up the sprawling little goddess towards the face that towered above me. "Was it dying for a kiss then?" he said, taking her, blanket and all, from my arms. The end of the blanket swept across his easel, and smeared the face of the baby in a picture of the _Three Kings_, at which he was working. "O Percivale!" I cried, "you've smeared your baby!" "But this is a real live baby; she may smear any thing she likes." "Except her own face and hands, please, then, Percivale." "Or her blessed frock," said Percivale. "She hasn't got one, though. Why hasn't the little angel got her feathers on yet?" "I was in such a hurry to bring her." "To be kissed?" "No, not exactly. It wasn't her I was in a hurry to bring; it was myself." "Ah! you wanted to be kissed, did you?" "No, sir. I didn't want to be kissed; but I did so want to kiss you, Percivale." "Isn't it all the same, though, darling?" he said. "It seems so to me." "Sometimes, Percivale, you are so very stupid! It's not the same at all. There's a world of difference between the two; and you ought to know it, or be told it, if you don't." "I shall think it over as soon as you leave me," he said.