With more or less damage to himself consequent on his excitement, Alfred completed his shaving and hastened to return to his wife and the babe. Finding the supposedly ill Zoie careering about the centre of the room expostulating with Aggie, the young man stopped dumbfounded on the threshold.

“Zoie,” he cried in astonishment. “What are you doing out of bed?”

For an instant the startled Zoie gazed at him stupefied.

“Why, I—I——” Her eyes sought Aggie's for a suggestion; there was no answer there. It was not until her gaze fell upon the cradle that she was seized by the desired inspiration.

“I just got up to see baby,” she faltered, then putting one hand giddily to her head, she pretended to sway.

In an instant Alfred's arms were about her. He bore her quickly to the bed. “You stay here, my darling,” he said tenderly. “I'll bring baby to you,” and after a solicitous caress he turned toward baby's crib and bent fondly over the little one. “Ah, there's father's man,” he said. “Was he lonesome baby? Oh, goodis g'acious,” then followed an incoherent muttering of baby talk, as he bore the youngster toward Zoie's bed. “Come, my precious,” he called to Zoie, as he sank down on the edge of the bed. “See mother's boy.”

“Mother!” shrieked Zoie in horror. It had suddenly dawned upon her that this was the name by which Alfred would no doubt call her for the rest of her life. She almost detested him.

But Alfred did not see the look of disgust on Zoie's face. He was wholly absorbed by baby.

“What a funny face,” he cooed as he pinched the youngster's cheek. “Great Scott, what a grip,” he cried as the infant's fingers closed around his own. “Will you look at the size of those hands,” he exclaimed.

Zoie and Aggie exchanged worried glances; the baby had no doubt inherited his large hands from his mother.

“Say, Aggie,” called Alfred, “what are all of these little specks on baby's forehead?” He pointed toward the infant's brow. “One, two, three,” he counted.

Zoie was becoming more and more uncomfortable at the close proximity of the little stranger.

“Oh,” said Aggie, with affected carelessness as she leaned over Alfred's shoulder and glanced at baby's forehead. “That is just a little rash.”

“A rash!” exclaimed Alfred excitedly, “that's dangerous, isn't it? We'd better call up the doctor.” And he rose and started hurriedly toward the telephone, baby in arms.

“Don't be silly,” called Zoie, filled with vague alarm at the thought of the family physician's appearance and the explanations that this might entail.

Stepping between Alfred and the 'phone, Aggie protested frantically. “You see, Alfred,” she said, “it is better to have the rash OUT, it won't do any harm unless it turns IN.”

“He's perfectly well,” declared Zoie, “if you'll only put him in his crib and leave him alone.”

Alfred looked down at his charge. “Is that right, son?” he asked, and he tickled the little fellow playfully in the ribs. “I'll tell you what,” he called over his shoulder to Zoie, “he's a fine looking boy.” And then with a mysterious air, he nodded to Aggie to approach. “Whom does he look like?” he asked.

Again Zoie sat up in anxiety. Aggie glanced at her, uncertain what answer to make.

“I—I hadn't thought,” she stammered weakly.

“Go on, go on,” exclaimed the proud young father, “you can't tell me that you can look at that boy and not see the resemblance.”

“To whom?” asked Aggie, half fearfully.

“Why,” said Alfred, “he's the image of Zoie.”

Zoie gazed at the puckered red face in Alfred's arms. “What!” she shrieked in disgust, then fall back on her pillows and drew the lace coverlet over her face.

Mistaking Zoie's feeling for one of embarrassment at being over-praised, Alfred bore the infant to her bedside. “See, dear,” he persisted, “see for yourself, look at his forehead.”

“I'd rather look at you,” pouted Zoie, peeping from beneath the coverlet, “if you would only put that thing down for a minute.”

“Thing?” exclaimed Alfred, as though doubting his own ears. But before he could remonstrate further, Zoie's arms were about his neck and she was pleading jealously for his attention.

“Please, Alfred,” she begged, “I have scarcely had a look at you, yet.”

Alfred shook his head and turned to baby with an indulgent smile. It was pleasant to have two such delightful creatures bidding for his entire attention.

“Dear me,” he said to baby. “Dear me, tink of mudder wanting to look at a big u'gy t'ing like fadder, when she could look at a 'itty witty t'ing like dis,” and he rose and crossed to the crib where he deposited the small creature with yet more gurgling and endearing.

Zoie's dreams of rapture at Alfred's home coming had not included such divided attention as he was now showing her and she was growing more and more desperate at the turn affairs had taken. She resolved to put a stop to his nonsense and to make him realise that she and no one else was the lode star of his existence. She beckoned to Aggie to get out of the room and to leave her a clear field and as soon as her friend had gone quietly into the next room, she called impatiently to Alfred who was still cooing rapturously over the young stranger. Finding Alfred deaf to her first entreaty, Zoie shut her lips hard, rearranged her pretty head-dress, drew one fascinating little curl down over her shoulder, reknotted the pink ribbon of her negligee, and then issued a final and imperious order for her husband to attend her.

“Yes, yes, dear,” answered Alfred, with a shade of impatience. “I'm coming, I'm coming.” And bidding a reluctant farewell to the small person in the crib, he crossed to her side.

Zoie caught Alfred's hand and drew him down to her; he smiled complacently.

“Well,” he said in the patronising tone that Zoie always resented. “How is hubby's little girl?”

“It's about time,” pouted Zoie, “that you made a little fuss over me for a change.”

“My own!” murmured Alfred. He stooped to kiss the eager lips, but just as his young wife prepared to lend herself to his long delayed embrace, his mind was distracted by an uneasy thought. “Do you think that Baby is——”

He was not permitted to finish the sentence.

Zoie drew him back to her with a sharp exclamation.

“Think of ME for a while,” she commanded.

“My darling,” expostulated Alfred with a shade of surprise at her vehemence. “How could I think of anyone else?” Again he stooped to embrace her and again his mind was directed otherwise. “I wonder if Baby is warm enough,” he said and attempted to rise.

“Wonder about ME for a while,” snapped Zoie, clinging to him determinedly.

Again Alfred looked at her in amazement. Was it possible there was anything besides Baby worth wondering about? Whether there was or not, Zoie was no longer to be resisted and with a last regretful look at the crib, he resigned himself to giving his entire attention to his spoiled young wife.

Gratified by her hard-won conquest, Zoie now settled herself in Alfred's arms.

“You haven't told me what you did all the time that you were away,” she reminded him.

“Oh, there was plenty to do,” answered Alfred.

“Did you think of me every minute?” she asked jealously.

“That would be telling,” laughed Alfred, as he pinched her small pink ear.

“I wish to be 'told,'” declared Zoie; “I don't suppose you realise it, but if I were to live a THOUSAND YEARS, I'd never be quite sure what you did during those FEW MONTHS.”

“It was nothing that you wouldn't have been proud of,” answered Alfred, with an unconscious expansion of his chest.

“Do you love me as much as ever?” asked Zoie.

“Behave yourself,” answered Alfred, trying not to appear flattered by the discovery that his absence had undoubtedly caused her great uneasiness.

“Well, SAY it!” demanded Zoie.

“You know I do,” answered Alfred, with the diffidence of a school boy.

“Then kiss me,” concluded Zoie, with an air of finality that left Alfred no alternative.

As a matter of fact, Alfred was no longer seeking an alternative. He was again under the spell of his wife's adorable charms and he kissed her not once, but many times.

“Foolish child,” he murmured, then he laid her tenderly against the large white pillows, remonstrating with her for being so spoiled, and cautioning her to be a good little girl while he went again to see about Baby.

Zoie clung to his hand and feigned approaching tears.

“You aren't thinking of me at all?” she pouted. “And kisses are no good unless you put your whole mind on them. Give me a real kiss!” she pleaded.

Again Alfred stooped to humour the small importunate person who was so jealous of his every thought, but just as his lips touched her forehead his ear was arrested by a sound as yet new both to him and to Zoie. He lifted his head and listened.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I don't know,” answered Zoie, wondering if the cat could have got into the room.

A redoubled effort on the part of the young stranger directed their attention in the right direction.

“My God!” exclaimed Alfred tragically, “it's Baby. He's crying.” And with that, he rushed to the crib and clasped the small mite close to his breast, leaving Zoie to pummel the pillows in an agony of vexation.

After vain cajoling of the angry youngster, Alfred bore him excitedly to Zoie's bedside.

“You'd better take him, dear,” he said.

To the young husband's astonishment, Zoie waved him from her in terror, and called loudly for Aggie. But no sooner had Aggie appeared on the scene, than a sharp whistle was heard from the pavement below.

“Pull down the shade!” cried Zoie frantically.

Aggie hastened toward the window.

Attributing Zoie's uneasiness to a caprice of modesty, Alfred turned from the cradle to reassure her.

“No one can see in way up here,” he said.

To Zoie's distress, the lowering of the shade was answered by a yet shriller whistle from the street below.

“Was it 'up' or 'down'?” cried Zoie to Aggie in an agony of doubt, as she tried to recall her instructions to Jimmy.

“I don't know,” answered Aggie. “I've forgotten.”

Another impatient whistle did not improve their memory. Alarmed by Zoie's increasing excitement, and thinking she was troubled merely by a sick woman's fancy that someone might see through the window, Alfred placed the babe quickly in its cradle and crossed to the young wife's bed.

“It was up, dear,” he said. “You had Aggie put it down.”

“Then I want it up,” declared the seemingly perverse Zoie.

“But it was up,” argued Alfred.

A succession of emotional whistles set Zoie to pounding the pillows.

“Put it down!” she commanded.

“But Zoie——” protested Alfred.

“Did I say 'up' or did I say 'down'?” moaned the half-demented Zoie, while long whistles and short whistles, appealing whistles and impatient whistles followed each other in quick succession.

“You said down, dear,” persisted Alfred, now almost as distracted as his wife.

Zoie waved him from the room. “I wish you'd get out of here,” she cried; “you make me so nervous that I can't think at all.”

“Of course, dear,” murmured Alfred, “if you wish it.” And with a hurt and perplexed expression on his face he backed quickly from the room.