"Sure and ain't the house quiet when they're gone," said Mrs. Watson, looking out of the window across the gleaming landscape, dotted in six places by her generous contribution to the Chicken Hill school.
"And it won't be long until they're gone—for good."
"Cheer up, honest woman," cried Pearl gaily, "you havn't even lost either Teddy or me, and we're the eldest. It looks to me as if you will have a noisy house for quite a while yet, and I wouldn't begin to worry over anything so far away—in fact, ma, it's a good rule not to worry till you have to, and don't do it then!"
Pearl was bringing back "the room" to the state of tidiness it enjoyed during school hours, moving about with joyous haste, yet with strict attention to every detail, which did not escape her mother's eye.
"It's grand to be as light of heart as you are, Pearlie child," she said, "I'm often afraid for you—when I think of all the sad things in life and you so sure that everything will happen right. It is to them that the world is brightest that the darkest days can come, and the lightest heart sometimes has heaviest mournin'."
A little wither of disappointment went over Pearl's bright face, but she shook it off impatiently. She wished her mother would not talk like this on this day—of all days.
"Don't spoil a good day, ma, with sad talk. Look out at the Spring sun there, and the cattle, even the wild ones from the range, with their sides steaming and then nosing around so happy now, for getting all about the bad times they had even as late as last evening. There's no use telling them there's cold days coming—they wouldn't believe now—and anyway they'll know soon enough. Isn't it best to let every one have their sunny day—without a cloud on it."
Before her mother could form an answer, the one long and two short rings came on the phone. Pearl's heart turned over in its bounding joy. It had come—she knew it had come.
She took down the receiver:
"Hello," she said, in a thin voice.