It was evening; tea had been cleared away, and all excepting Phil, who was building a wonderful house of wooden bricks, and Olive and Lottie, who were making dolls' clothes, were intent either upon books or lessons. Stay though, there was one more exception—Mrs. Grainger was busy at her not unusual occupation of darning stockings, in which work she paused occasionally to hear Lancie repeat the tenses of a French verb.
Two or three of the party remembered afterwards that they had heard the front door bell ring; but nobody was paying any attention to what was going on outside, till suddenly the sound of Mary's voice fell upon their ears. So still was the room, and so eager and excited were her tones, that her words were distinctly audible.
"Why, sir, it is yourself, sure enough. Oh, won't they be glad! But they wasn't expectin' you for a day or two yet."
Then another voice was heard, and at the first sound, a little cry escaped Mrs. Grainger's lips. She rose hurriedly from her seat, and the next moment was in the hall. The children followed her, and then there was a shout, a rush, a crowding round a tall, bearded figure in an overcoat, while exclamations of delight and welcome, kisses, sobbing and laughter, were mixed together in wild confusion.
It was some little time before it was understood that, owing to the favourable weather, the good ship "Seabird" had completed the voyage sooner than was expected, and wishing to give his wife and children a glad surprise, Mr. Grainger had come straight from port without giving notice of his arrival in England. His anticipations of that meeting were not disappointed.
Mary had had her handshake, and, pleased and grateful for the goodwill it betokened, had retired to the kitchen. And while she busied herself in "getting out the tea-things for master," she constantly wiped away her tears at the sounds of rejoicing that reached her.
What an evening that was! Phil got sleepy at last and asked to be put to bed, but all the rest sat up till midnight. They felt they could not tear themselves away from the presence of the dear father who had been absent so long. And how they loved him! Had they ever known how much before that evening, they wondered.
Presently, when the clock gave warning that some of them must begin to think about saying good-night, and after a pause that seemed made because the happiness in that little room had grown almost too great for words, Edgar, in obedience to the wish he read in the faces of his brothers and sisters, became spokesman for them all.
"Father, you left us a trust—a charge," he said; and, having risen from his seat next his mother, he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "We have not fulfilled it as we ought, as we might have done, but I think we can honestly say we have not been wholly forgetful, and have each done something to prove it."
"I know that, dear boy," was his father's reply. "Your mother's letters told me a great deal; the rest I could fill in for myself. I thank you all for taking such good care of her, and for striving to do your utmost to relieve and help her in every way you could. It was the truest way in which you could show your love for me."