As Mr. Langley walked slowly back to Farleigh in the early dusk of the cloudy November day, he reflected upon his visit, upon the beautiful baby, upon what had carried him thither and upon Anna’s unaccountable unwillingness to gratify his wife’s not unnatural desire. But he said to himself it wasn’t really unaccountable--it only seemed so to him. How serious the girl had looked as she stood with the baby in her arms, its little face hidden on her shoulder--and how staunch and true! And when all was said, she had simply refused to neglect her duty as she saw it. Quite likely, too, she saw more clearly than he. Certainly there was nothing selfish in her standpoint, while he, for his part, could not so absolve himself. He hoped he had not urged her unduly. Nevertheless, the situation was not normal. Anna’s mother was rightly troubled. The girl was too young to shoulder the responsibility she had taken upon herself. After the strain of those hard years in the city, she ought to be free to devote herself to school and a school-girl’s pleasures with only the normal home duties of such an one. Someone ought to adopt the baby--someone in Farleigh so that Anna need not be separated wholly from him. Someone--Mr. Langley stopped and put forth considerable effort to dislodge a stone between the flags with his walking stick. As he went on again, he said to himself that it would be a simple matter to put through. If they knew there was a chance, it seemed to him that people would simply flock to the Millers’ in crowds to beg for that most engaging baby. How wise the little fellow had looked as he listened to the watch! Sighing vague, he hastened on as if he wished to escape something. But with all his speed, he was unable to do so, and depression settled upon him. He supposed that it was because he was drawing near the parsonage and would have to disappoint his wife. He went directly to her room, realising, even in his preoccupation, that he owed the privilege to Anna. For only since she had entered the wedge, had he fallen into the habit of seeking his wife at odd moments. And though she rather tolerated than welcomed his visits, he was grateful for even tolerance. For her long illness and silence and desire for seclusion had estranged husband and wife almost as effectually as bitter feeling might have done. Mrs. Langley sat in her cushioned chair in the dark, gloomy room, awaiting the word he was to bring. Her eyes were weak from headache and want of sunshine and out-of-door air, and in winter she had her tea very early to avoid lighting the heavily shaded lamp. Both Mr. Langley and Bell Adams felt that, having admitted Anna Miller, if Mrs. Langley would also let in the sunshine she might utterly banish neuralgia. But neither ventured to make the suggestion. She had already had her tea, and when he entered the room, her husband felt rather than saw her eager questioning gaze.