"Oh dear father, is it true? Oh, godfather, I am so happy! Children, children, listen—"
"Let her alone," said the Bishop; "we can only tell by waiting. She is a sweet-hearted child, if she does use extraordinary language, and she still will be sweet if she should utterly fail you in housekeeping. Remember that, Tom."
"But she also shows a lovely and cultivated mind at times," insisted the father.
"Well, not to me as yet," denied the Bishop, laughingly. "'Fritty'—'Drippy-drap'—'drizzle-drazzle'! Nevertheless, you are right to forbid her to study for a time. She has sombre shadows under her eyes that add to her peculiar style of beauty, but they must be painted out by a good common rose-color. Now, Tom, take yourself and your children and your affairs out of my study and my head—out of my heart you never go—but this sermon must be written."
"Oh, just one minute," begged Joan, "Father, what about Tom?"
"He is to be with us. I shall take him on the furnace work with me. But don't mention that to him yet, Joan; I charge you carefully not to tell him."
Joan's face was a flushed joy. "Not for the world. How happy, happy, happy we shall all be together! Tom's coming is my last straw of joy."
"Godfather," pleaded the baby, with hands held up, "you tarry me up 'tairs."
Godfather flung the baby up to his tall broadcloth shoulder, and the whole cavalcade trooped to the stairs, the baby the centre of attraction. Joan, running on ahead, stood smiling from the upper landing, her arms held down for the crowing baby girl, whom she clasped and carried away to bed.
Presently from the highest landing, where the children were quartered, Joan's still sweet tones floated down as if remonstrating against some action of her brother's.