Morning broke clear and fine, with a golden sun smiling over a clean-washed world. Garth greeted it with a merry little shout.
"Hurrah, Mother! No more rain!"
"Not a drop," answered Aileen from the passage, where the steady swish of her broom could be heard. "It's going to be the most beautiful day!"
"Can I get up to breakfast?" Garth demanded. "I'm so sick of breakfast in bed, Mother."
"Oh, yes, I think so. I'll come and help you in a moment."
"I'm all right," Garth responded. "I'll be quite careful of my arm—don't you bother." He capered out into the passage, a cheery figure in pyjamas, flourishing a bath-towel; and disappeared into the bathroom, whence came presently much splashing, mingled with snatches of song.
"Bless him! I'm sure he's better," Aileen murmured. Something of the weight on her heart seemed to be lifted this morning. Perhaps it was the beauty of the day: perhaps an added hope and interest in life since their visitor of the night before. She sang as she swept. That in itself was not unusual, since singing was a cheerful exercise, and she believed in encouraging cheerfulness. "One's mouth can't turn down at the corners if one is singing," she was accustomed to think. But her song was not forced to-day: and Tom, coming up the path, caught the happy note in it, and smiled unconsciously.
"Look here," said he, later, at breakfast. "I want to draw the family attention to a painful fact. It's more than a fortnight since we came here; and for that whole fortnight Mother Aileen has not been outside the house!"
"Why, Tom, I've been——"
"You've been into the garden about three times, and once to the pigsty," he interrupted. "I knew that quite well, but it doesn't count. Does it, Garth?"