At last they stopped before a home that was neither large nor showy—a bungalow with its broad side to the street, it stood in the midst of a clump of trees. Nature had planted the trees. Someone, admiring nature’s work, had built his home there.
Once inside that house, the good Captain heaved a sigh of content. A large open fire gave the tiny living room a feeling of luxurious grandeur. And yet there was about it an air of tidy comfort. The furniture was plain. Hard-bottomed rockers had been softened by handmade cushions, all in bright colors. A touch of lace and embroidery here and there on table and chairs told of fingers never still.
A short, energetic little lady with flushed cheeks hastened from the kitchen at the back to greet them.
“Well, how do you do, Captain Burns? How good it is to see you!”
“It’s good to be here,” the Captain rumbled. “And this, Mrs. LeClare, is my good friend Johnny Thompson.
“And here,” the Captain chuckled, “here’s Alice. Ah, Johnny, there’s a girl you could love!”
Johnny flushed. The girl who extended her hand laughed a merry laugh. “The Captain must have his jokes.”
The hand Johnny grasped was a chubby, capable little hand; the eyes he looked into were frank and clear. The girl’s hair was black. There was a slight natural wave in it. Her eyebrows were black and thick. She was short like her mother. Like her too, she gave forth an air of boundless energy.
“Alice LeClare,” Johnny said, half to himself. “A pretty name.”
“We are French,” Alice explained, “Canadian French.”