“Why not? It was the truth.”
“Oh, George. Aren’t children nowadays hard enough to handle as it is, without letting them know how silly we older people were once?”
“Now, Mother,” said Della, rising quickly and going to her mother’s side, and kissing her. “Don’t scold Father. Can’t you see he’s dreaming of that day again?”
And dancing to her father’s side, Della dropped a kiss on the spot where his hair was thinning out, and then danced gaily from the dining-room.
Once more Mr. Temple grinned at his wife, as he sipped his coffee. Then putting down the cup, he leaned forward and said confidentially:
“You do remember that time, don’t you, dear?”
Mrs. Temple started to say something sharp by way of reproof for his silliness, but a softened look came into her eyes as she stared back. The years that intervened since their youth seemed to slip away.
“Why, George,” she said. “You look positively handsome.”
As for Della, a telegram to her friend, Marjorie Faulkner, apprised the latter of the message from the Far North to the effect that the lost had been found. And Della soon followed her message in person. Thereafter the two girls were never tired of talking about the possible adventures that had befallen the boys, and while Marjorie sang Bob’s praises, Della sang Frank’s. Poor Jack, it is to be feared, was somewhat slighted in these discussions.
“I’ll warrant you that Bob saved the day for them all,” Marjorie said on one occasion. “He’s so big and strong.”