Anxious inquiry of the telephone after church brought forth no telegram.
Dinner was a strained and artificial affair, preceded by a wistful but
submissive blessing on the meal. Then the couple settled down in their
comfortable chairs, one each side of the telephone, and tried to read,
but somehow the hours dragged slowly.
"There's that pair of Grandmother Marshall's andirons up in the attic!"
said Mother Marshall, looking up suddenly over the top of the _Sunday
school Times_.
"I'll bring them down the first thing in the morning!" said Father, with
his finger on a promise in the Psalms. Then there was silence for some
time.
Mother Marshall's eyes suddenly lighted on an article headed, "My Class
of Boys."
"Seth!" she said, with a beautiful light in her eyes. "You don't suppose
maybe she'd be willing to take Stephen's class of boys in Sunday-school
when she gets better? I can't bear to see them begin to stay away, and
Deacon Grigsby admits he don't know how to manage them."
"Why, sure!" said Father, tenderly. "She'll take it, I've no doubt.
She's that kind, I should think. And if she isn't now, Mother, she will
be after she's been with you awhile!"
"Oh, now, Father!" said Mother, turning pink with pleasure. "Come, let's
go up and see how the room looks at sunset!"
So arm in arm they climbed the front stairs and stood looking about on
the glorified rosy background with its wilderness of cherry bloom about
the frieze.
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