It was quite late in the afternoon when the two doctors came out into the hall. The boys crept to the half-open kitchen door to listen eagerly.
"Thank God, and thank you, George, she will live!"
It was a strained harsh voice, but it was Father's, and the boys all pressed forward.
Then they hastily retreated, for, while the two doctors stood side by side, Father's head was bent on Uncle George's shoulder and their hands were clasped hard.
"They must be making it up!" whispered Oliver to his awestruck brothers.
And it was so. The breach of years was healed in a single afternoon. The brothers were once again friends. Whatever their quarrel had been—and neither the children of the Tile House nor the other Carews ever knew what it was about—it fled away like a morning mist in the face of a great peril, for death had come very close to little Clary that rainy Saturday.
It was many weeks before she left her bed, but when her own birthday came round Father carried her, covered with shawls, in to tea, and Clary could not believe her blue eyes.
On the table was a huge frosted white cake, with flags flying and "CLARE" in great letters upon it, while Mother, who had grown pounds better lately, smiled behind the army of cups and saucers.
But wonder of wonders, round and round the table, the guests were all Carews!
"'A motley crew' we are!" cheerfully announced Doctor George, and all the children radiantly clapped their hands at his joke. Even the White House baby, which had been carried to the feast, gurgled and crowed loudly on its Mother's lap.