CHAPTER III
DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE RAM
George was very anxious to receive me at his home. The Ram had as yet only a six days licence, so on Sunday afternoon I walked over to tea. It was very warm and still and sunny as I came through Greymede. A few sweethearts were sauntering under the horse-chestnut trees, or crossing the road to go into the fields that lay smoothly carpeted after the hay-harvest.
As I came round the flagged track to the kitchen door of the Inn I heard the slur of a baking tin and the bang of the oven door, and Meg, saying crossly:
“No, don’t you take him Emily—naughty little thing! Let his father hold him!”
One of the babies was crying.
I entered, and found Meg all flushed and untidy, wearing a large white apron, just rising from the oven. Emily, in a cream dress, was taking a red-haired, crying baby from out of the cradle. George sat in the small arm-chair, smoking and looking cross.
“I can’t shake hands,” said Meg, rather flurried. “I am all floury. Sit down, will you——” and she hurried out of the room. Emily looked up from the complaining baby to me, and smiled a woman’s rare, intimate smile, which says: “See, I am engaged thus
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