Mrs. Driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering.
"Mother," said Alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?"
For a minute the mother could not reply. The last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. Her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work.
"I can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "We must pray and wait."
As she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. A very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except Mr. Knapp, once on business.
"I'll go," said Mrs. Driscoll. "Wipe your eyes, Alma."
To her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. Something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. It was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to Miss Alma Driscoll.
Her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. One glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. She brought the box to the table and seated herself.
"What's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "It seems to be for you. There was nobody there, but I found that on the step."