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Updated: July 3, 2025
"What are you crying for? You?" demanded the young mother. "I never saw you cry before. And it's not your baby." "I know it," said Isabel, humbly. "I suppose it is because I am so sorry for you. I am terribly." "I never thought you had that much feeling," said Anabel, dully. "You were always the strong one. Come and see my baby."
She's as pretty as a peach, and as domestic as Anabel. I'll have you both in to supper, as soon as we get a new cook. We've had four this month, and my wife warned me I was not to ask you to anything until she was perfectly satisfied. She's the best housekeeper you ever saw." Gwynne maintained an infuriated silence. It was some moments before he could trust himself to articulate.
Meanwhile, as there's nothing doing in that line here, cards are a mighty fine substitute for beaux, and no mistake." Isabel had been glad to be rid of her, and of her other old friends, who did call in due course. Anabel had not returned and was the worst of correspondents.
A storm of questions, exclamations and remarks ensued. "Lovely?" "As fair as poet's dreaming." "Die Vernon?" "Not for Joe!" "The Soprano?" A shake of my head. "Anabel?" "No." "Who is she?" "Let us drink her health again," said one, getting thirsty, and fearing in the excitement the bottle would not be passed. "Tell us all about her," cried another.
And, if you were wise, as Rose was, thanks to a tip from Anabel, and had emancipated yourself from the horror of overnight laundries by providing yourself with crêpe underclothes and dark little silk blouses, you got all the hot water you could beg of the chambermaid, and did the family wash in the bowl in your room, on an afternoon when you had a short jump and there was no matinée.
For a week she was so moody and irascible that Abraham twice gave warning, Old Mac artfully took to his bed with rheumatism, and only the inexcitable Chuma was unconcerned. She rode her horse nearly to death, snubbed Anabel whose children were down with the measles over the telephone, and even boxed the ears of a dilatory hen.
With a very fair simulation of the engaged girl she answered their rapid fire of questions, and even informed Anabel that she would prefer silver to china when the day for presents arrived, and promised that she should come to the rehearsal of the ceremony, since, unfortunately, the young matron's own happy state debarred her from officiating at the altar.
Isabel rose, trembling and unnerved, but no longer shrinking, and followed Anabel into the nursery, where the child, looking like a little wax-work, lay in its crib. "She is dead!" said Anabel, in the same astonished indignant voice. "My baby!" She caught Isabel's arm and shook it violently. "It isn't true," she commanded. "Say it is not. How can it be? She spoke and laughed only two hours ago.
They parted at the foot of the mountain, and as Isabel approached her own house she saw Anabel Colton's trap tied to the garden gate. She set her teeth and slackened the pace of her horse, but Anabel and Miss Boutts had seen her, and leaned over the edge of the veranda, calling to her impatiently. She gave her horse a cut with the whip and rode rapidly to the stable.
It must continue to be the fate of the child-bearing woman, I suppose for a while at least; but others have blundered upon the fact that it is a mere incident, and are far happier in consequence. To women like Anabel freedom means an indulgent husband and plenty of money.
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