"Was he distressed at hearing of Mrs. Lacy's death?" asked Auntie.
"Very," said Walter; "it put him back, the doctor said; but he'll be all right when he sees the children. If you had seen him when I told him about their finding their way to us, not even knowing our names, all over Paris! He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He's weak still, you know. And then he's so dreadfully grateful to us! I was glad to get away."
"And when does he want them?" said Rosamond dolefully.
"As soon as possible. He can't come north this winter. And he's not rich, I can see. So I was thinking——"
"What, my boy?"
"It is so cold here," repeated Walter; "it really feels terrible to come back to. Supposing we all go down there for a couple of months or so, to escape the cold? We could keep the children till Bertram is strong again and able to make his plans. I think we'd feel quite queer without them now. Besides, I promised him to bring them back to him."
"What do you say, Rosamond?" said Auntie.
"I should like it very much. It would be so nice not to part with them just yet."
So it was decided. You can imagine how much had to be told to the children the next day. Mingled sadness and happiness—warp and woof of the web of life!
But when they found themselves once more on the railway, with the kind friends they had learnt to know so well, really on the way to "Papa," I think the happiness was uppermost.