The newspapers said it was a most marvelous escape for the whole family. They gave a detailed account of how the beautiful residence of the Honorable John Burton, with all its costly furnishings, had burned to the ground, and of how the entire family was saved, making special mention of the honorable gentleman’s aged father and mother. No one was injured, fortunately, and the family had taken up a temporary residence in the nearest hotel. It was understood that Mr. Burton would begin rebuilding at once.
The newspapers were right--Mr. Burton did begin rebuilding at once; in fact, the ashes of the Burton mansion were not cold before John Burton began to interview architects and contractors.
“It’ll be ’way ahead of the old one,” he confided to his wife enthusiastically.
Mrs. John sighed.
“I know, dear,” she began plaintively; “but, don’t you see? it won’t be the same--it can’t be. Why, some of those things we’ve had ever since we were married. They seemed a part of me, John. I was used to them. I had grown up with some of them--those candlesticks of mamma’s, for instance, that she had when I was a bit of a baby. Do you think money can buy another pair that--that were hers?” And Mrs. John burst into tears.
“Come, come, dear,” protested her husband, with a hasty caress and a nervous glance at the clock--he was due at the bank in ten minutes. “Don’t fret about what can’t be helped; besides"-and he laughed whimsically--“you must look out or you’ll be getting as bad as mother over her hair wreath!” And with another hasty pat on her shoulder he was gone.
Mrs. John suddenly stopped her crying. She lowered her handkerchief and stared fixedly at an old print on the wall opposite. The hotel--though strictly modern in cuisine and management--was an old one, and prided itself on the quaintness of its old-time furnishings. Just what the print represented Mrs. John could not have told, though her eyes did not swerve from its face for five long minutes. What she did see was a silent, dismantled farmhouse, and a little old man and a little old woman with drawn faces and dumb lips.
Was it possible? Had she, indeed, been so blind?
Mrs. John rose to her feet, bathed her eyes, straightened her neck-bow, and crossed the hall to Grandma Burton’s room.
“Well, mother, and how are you getting along?” she asked cheerily.