I
didn't. We sat looking into the fire together, she and I. Neither
of us spoke. Then we went up to the children. They slept sweetly
in their cribs. I saw a tear in her eye as she bent over the baby's
cradle, and caught her to me, questioning.
"Shall we lose you now?" she whispered, and hid her head on my
shoulder. I do not know what jealous thought of authors being wedded
to their work had come into her mind; or, rather, I do. I felt it,
and in my heart, while I held her close, I registered a vow which
I have kept. It was the last tear she shed for me. Our daughter
pouts at her father now and then; says I am "fierce." But She comes
with her sewing to sit where I write, and when she comes the sun
shines.
Necessarily, for a while, my new work held me very close. "How the
Other Half Lives" was written at night while the house slept, for
I had my office work to attend to in the day. Then it was my habit
to light the lamps in all the rooms of the lower story and roam
through them with my pipe, for I do most of my writing on my feet.
I began the book with the new year.
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