shoved the tea-kettle a little farther on so it would begin to boil,
before she opened that fat letter. She lit the lamp, too, put it on the
supper-table, and changed the position of the bread-plate, covering it
nicely with a fringed napkin so the bread wouldn't get dry. Everything
must be ready when Father got back. Then she went and sat down with her
gold spectacles and tore open that envelope.

She was so absorbed in the letter that she failed for the first time
since they got the car to hear its pleasant purr as it came down the
road, and the big head-lights sent their rays out cheerfully without any
one at the kitchen window to see. Father was getting worried that the
kitchen door didn't fly open as he drew in beside the big flag-stone,
when Mother suddenly came flying out with her face all smiles and
eagerness. He hadn't seen her look that way since Stephen went away.

She had left a trail of letter all the way from her big chair to the
door, and she held the envelope in her hand. She rushed out and buried
her face in his rough coat-collar:

"Oh, Father! I've been so worried about you!" she declared, joyfully,
but she didn't look worried a bit.

Father looked down at her tenderly and patted her plump shoulder. "Had a
flat tire and had to stop, and get her pumped up," he explained, "and
then the man found a place wanted patching. He took a little longer than
I expected. I was afraid you would worry."

"Well, hurry in," she said, eagerly. "Supper's all ready and I've got a
letter to read to you."