Once she stirred restlessly, and Father put out his hand and touched her in alarm:
"What's the matter, Rachel? Aren't you sleeping?"
"Father, I believe we'll have to get a new rug for that room."
"Sure!" said Father, relaxing sleepily.
"Gray, with pink rosebuds, soft and thick," she whispered.
"Sure! pink, with gray rosebuds," murmured Father as he dropped off again.
They made very little of breakfast the next morning; they were both too excited about getting off early; and Mother Marshall forgot to caution Father about going at too high speed. If she suspected that he was running a little faster than usual she winked at it, for she was anxious to get to the stores as soon as possible. She had arisen early to read over the article in the magazine again, and she knew to a nicety just how much pink and white she would need for the curtains and cushions. She had it in the back of her mind that she meant to get little brass handles and keyholes for the bureau also. She was like a child who was getting ready for a new doll.
It was not until they were on their way back home again, with packages all about their feet, and an eager light in their faces, that an idea suddenly came to both of them—an idea so chilling that the eagerness went out of their eyes for a moment, and the old, patient, sweet look of sorrow came back. It was Mother Marshall who put it into words:
"You don't suppose, Seth," she appealed—she always called him Seth in times of crisis—"you don't suppose that perhaps she mightn't want to come, after all!"
"Well, I was thinking, Rachel," he said, tenderly, "we'd best not be getting too set on it. But, anyhow, we'd be ready for some one else. You know Stevie always wanted you to have things fixed nice and fancy. But you fix it up. I guess she's coming. I really do think she must be coming! We'll just pray about it and then we'll leave it there!"