“Oh, I know all that,” said her husband, laughing rather grimly. “You needn’t ruffle up all your feathers, you fierce old mother-hen! But the youngsters may not realize it all; and anyway, it hurts a bit to meet them as a failure, and not as the person who has generally been regarded as a providing agency that always could be relied on. I feel as if I had let them down badly; and it isn’t a pleasant feeling, Mary. I get it every time Sarah glares at me.”
“But she isn’t glaring because we have lost money—only because we won’t let her stay without wages.”
“Oh, well, of course that’s rank insanity,” said her husband. “I wish I hadn’t any pride, for your sake; it makes me squirm whenever I think of your being without Sarah. But—one can’t do that.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t worry your dear old head about it,” said Mrs. Weston comfortably. “If I can’t manage, with two able-bodied daughters to help me, I should be the one to be ashamed. And we are going to manage, and very happily too. I quite look forward to running the house with the girls. They are such cheery souls—they’ll always make the best of things.”
“Well, they get that from their mother,” said the big man, looking down at her with many things expressed in his grey eyes. “To hear you talk, one would think that all this trouble I’ve landed you in for was just a picnic.”
“If you want to make me really cross,” said his wife, looking at the moment as if nothing on earth could ruffle her, “you will continue to stand there and talk nonsense. I don’t worry when Billy tears his trousers, because I know that little boys will tear their trousers, whether one worries or not; and I’m not going to worry when bad luck comes along, because one can’t expect good luck always. But I shall worry if you go about looking miserable: and it will be much harder for the girls. So you mustn’t.”
“Bless you!” said John Weston, his face suddenly grown younger. “Well, I suppose I’d better start.” He stooped to kiss her. “Where’s Billy?”
Billy answered for himself, characteristically. The gravel on the path by the window rattled under racing feet, and he came in through the window, crossing the sill with a swift, lithe movement.
“Didn’t touch the curtains, Mother—truly! I’ve been down at the creek, and I was afraid Father would be gone.”
“I nearly am,” said his father. “Are you ready, or will you have to clean up?”