"I--can't say--what I feel, Henry--only--God is good and--I'm not
afraid."
He held her to his shoulder and let her tears rain down into his watch
pocket, so shaken that he found himself mouthing silent words.
"God is good, Henry, isn't He?"
"Yes, Emmy, yes. Oh, my Emmy!"
"It must have been our prayers, Henry."
"Well," sheepishly, "not exactly mine, Emmy; you're the saint of this
family. But I--I've wished."
"Henry. I'm so happy--Mrs. Peopping had Jeanette at forty-three. Three
years older than me. I'm not afraid."
It was then he looked down at her graying head there, prone against his
chest, and a dart of fear smote him.
"Emmy," he cried, dragging her tear-happy face up to his, "if you're
afraid--not for anything in the world! You're _first_, Em."
She looked at him with her eyes two lamps.
"Afraid? That's the beautiful _part_, Henry. I'm not. Only happy. Why
afraid, Henry--if others dare it at--forty-three--You mean because it
was her second?"
He faced her with a scorch of embarrassment in his face.
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