“Yes, I had a letter from him in July,” said Rilla. “He said that when he got word of his wife's death and of my taking the baby,— Mr. Meredith wrote him, you know,—he wrote right away, but as he never got any answer he had begun to think his letter must have been lost.”
“It took him two years to begin to think it,” said Susan scornfully. “Some people think very slow. Jim Anderson has not got a scratch, for all he has been two years in the trenches. A fool for luck, as the old proverb says.”
“He wrote very nicely about Jims and said he’d like to see him,” said Rilla. “So I wrote and told him all about the wee man, and sent him snapshots. Jims will be two years old next week and he is a perfect duck.”
“You didn’t used to be very fond of babies,” said Cousin Sophia.
“I’m not a bit fonder of babies in the abstract than ever I was,” said Rilla, frankly. “But I do love Jims, and I’m afraid I wasn’t really half as glad as I should have been when Jim Anderson’s letter proved that he was safe and sound.”
“You wasn’t hoping the man would be killed!” cried Cousin Sophia in horrified accents.
“No—no—no! I just hoped he would go on forgetting about Jims, Mrs. Crawford.”
“And then your pa would have the expense of raising him,” said Cousin Sophia reprovingly. “You young creeturs are terrible thoughtless.”
Jims himself ran in at this juncture, so rosy and curly and kissable, that he extorted a qualified compliment even from Cousin Sophia.
