Nearing the house, he observed his wife sitting on the broad veranda, rocking to and fro, obviously on the watch for him. From force of habit, Bill tried to make a detour with the intent of entering unseen through the back door; but, knowing his ways, Mrs. Jones was too quick for him. She called to him, and, with the air of one who had no intention whatever of entering by the back door, he came up on the porch and dropped into a chair beside her.
"Well, mother," he said, amiably, "you look all tuckered out. Glad to see you restin'."
"Where you been all day?" she asked, ignoring his remark. Her tone was none too tender, but there was a gentle gleam in her motherly, tired eyes as they sought her husband's, sheepishly hiding behind half-closed lids.
"Just takin' a look at town," Bill drawled. "Just takin' a look." He settled himself comfortably in his chair and rolled a cigarette.
"Don't you know there's some new boarders come?"
"Sure," said Bill, easily. "I sent 'em, didn't I? Told 'em you was the best cook in two states, mother. Guess I ought to know."
Millie, an apron over her neat and simple house dress, came out and drew a chair between her foster-parents. She glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her gentle brown eyes came to rest lovingly on old Bill. He returned her smile.
"What a long time you were, daddy!" she said. "I bet you stayed away just because you knew mother and I wanted to talk to you to-day—own up, daddy!"
Bill grinned delightedly, despite his knowledge of the rather grave situation the girl's smiling comment covered. "Well, Millie," he answered, "I'm here now, ain't I? Guess we can have a little talk before them boarders begin to yell for their supper. I kinder wish as you didn't have to cook for 'em, mother—an' Millie waitin' on 'em. 'Tain't fair."
Mrs. Jones's lips twitched; the weight of a hard day was on her.