'What is it, Robert? What is the matter?'
She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!'
'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?'
The father cannot speak.
'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice.
'Can I not be told, Robert?'
'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers.
Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. 'Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.'
'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?'
'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I came back for these slips of paper.' She lifts them and presses them to her breast. 'These precious slips of paper!'
Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?'
Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.
'What is it, Robert?'
'Didn't you--hear anything, Grace?'
'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.'
'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura would come back and say good-night to me.'
'I daresay she will.'
'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be--rather brighter, Grace.'
'Robert!'
'I think Dick would like it.'
Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, 'Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill--if you can. But if Dick were to appear before me to-night----'
In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, 'Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.'
There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father.
'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up.
'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to hug her; but I can't.'
'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded me.'
The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need me as much as you do.'
'I don't know.'
'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, though.'
He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to make amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went out.
Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.'
'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands.
Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't see her very well there.'
For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests.
'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to look at you.'
She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet.
Shyly, 'Am I all right?'
It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she can't be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when you came you were just a little prettier.'
She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' she asks Mr. Don.
'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.'
'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can see right down into it now.'
'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he--?'
With shining eyes, 'I think--if he had wanted it very much.'
'I expect he would, my dear.'
There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think so, too, but I never was quite sure.' They are a very young pair.
Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don--'
'Yes, Laura?'
'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel quite light-hearted--though Dick has gone.'
'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame when they blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.'
'It seems so heartless to Dick.'
'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says.
'It's what he would like, Laura.'
'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once.