Then she heard them, chattering away to their father, with the occasional interruption of Charles's deep laugh. She hung away Letty's towels and garments, and let the water run for Marian's bath. Wasn't that Kelly person coming in? Would she, Catherine wondered, give the children their baths? Could she let anyone else do that? Those slender, rounded bodies, firm, ineffably young and sweet, changing so subtly from the soft baby curves of Letty into young strength. Oh, at every second there waited for her some coil of sentiment, of devotion, to hold her there, solid, unmoving, in the round of the past few years.
She was too tired to-night to think straight. She called Marian from the door, and was answered by a demonstrating wail.
"Not yet, Muvver. I have to see my Daddy."
But at last both she and Spencer were bathed and in bed. As Catherine turned out Spencer's light, she heard the doorbell.
"Who is it, Moth-er?" Spencer's head came up from his pillow.
"I don't know, son. But you go to sleep."
"Mother—" His voice was low, half ashamed. "Mother, what makes me ache in here?"
"Where?" Catherine hung over his bed. He drew her hand to his chest.
"When I think about my porch—an' everything."
"You better think about something here, Spencer." Catherine's words were tender. "Something you like here. That will cure your ache."