It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. ‘You have something more to tell me?’ Jack grinned. “Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?” “It seems the natural course—” “And do nothing?” “There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home.
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