"Well, then, every day. But to-morrow all day."
"Ah, yes, all day to-morrow."
"But I must go now."
"No, no, don't go," she said quickly. "Sit down; see, sit there. Don't look as if you'd thought of going."
He did as she bade him, trying to assume an indifferent air.
She, too, sat down, her eyes fixed on the door. A strange look of pain and shame spread over her face. She must bend to deceive her children, to dread detection, to play little tricks and weave little devices against the eyes of those for whom she had been an earthly providence—the highest, most powerful, and best they knew. Willie Ruston did not follow the thought that stamped its mark on her face then, nor understand why, with a sudden gasp, she dashed her hand across her eyes and turned to him with trembling lips, crying, in low tones,
"Ah, but I have you, Willie!"
Before he could answer her appeal, the voices were in the passage. Her face grew calm, save for a slight frown on her brow. She shaped her lips into a smile to meet the incomers. She shot a rapid glance of caution and warning at him. The door was flung open, and the three children rushed in, Madge at their head. Madge, seeing Willie Ruston, stopped short, and her laughter died away. She turned and said,
"Marjory, here's Mr. Ruston."
None could mistake her tone for one of welcome.