The children were saved the pain of answering by the arrival of Ernest with umbrella, water-proof, and rubbers for Chicken Little.
Mrs. Halford laughed merrily when she saw them.
“After all, children, I guess the joke is on me. I am afraid I didn’t have the courage to act at the proper time myself.”
The sitting room in the Morton home was cheerful with sunshine. It brightened the conventional flowers of the old crimson Brussels carpet into a semblance of life. It caught the gold outline of the wall paper and lingered there—even the somber steel engravings reflected the light from the polished glass over them. Mrs. Morton sat in her low rocking chair by the window reading a letter from her husband.
She had read it through for the second time, and still she gazed at the lines as if she could not quite comprehend their meaning. Her sewing had dropped from her lap unheeded. Ernest, coming in search of her, called three times before she noticed him.
“Yes, Son,” she answered absently at last.