Jennie was hovering around him now, interrupting him occasionally with a chirp of assent as she helped to clear off the table. She resembled a sparrow whose mate has just brought home a new twig for the nest.

Tom talked on in his large, complacent voice. He was immensely pleased with his “find.” The farm was all and more than it had professed to be. The house was in good repair, the location charming and healthful, the land rich and under a good degree of cultivation, with a convenient market for its produce. He had all but said that he would take it.

“A grand place for the babies to play,” he said. “No one will have to stop work to cart them out into the street for the air. No brick walls, no dust, no noise. You and Marion will have nothing to interrupt you from morning till night. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away, and it’s two miles to the village. That needn’t bother us any; we’ll have a car, of course, and when the children get old enough to go to school, Marion here can teach them all they need to know. She’s always been crazy to teach. How about that, Marion?” he asked, raising his voice unnecessarily. “It isn’t every family that has a schoolmarm all ready-made.”

But Marion did not answer. The gentle clatter of the spoons in the dishpan might have drowned out his question. He did not stop to see.

The girl in the darkened kitchen caught her breath in a half-sobbing sigh, and the tears came into her eyes; but she kept her peace and went on with her task.

“I’m going to see Matthews in the morning,” went on Tom joyously. “If he sticks to his offer about buying this house, I’ll accept it and bind the bargain for the farm tomorrow. Then how soon do you two ladies think you can get ready to move? If Matthews buys this house, he’s likely to want possession at once.”

Marion gasped and drew her hands from the dishwater suddenly. She hesitated for an instant then appeared like a ghost at the dining-room door, her wet hands clasped, her delicate face looking ghastly white against the dark background of the kitchen.

“Tom!” she said in an agonized voice. “Tom!”

Tom wheeled about his chair and faced her, startled from his contented planning.

“Tom! You’re not going to sell this house! The house that Father worked so hard to buy and to pay off the mortgage! Our home! My—my home! Tom, you know what Father said.”

The last words were almost a cry of distress.

Tom frowned uneasily. Jennie’s face grew red with anger.

“That’s just like you, Marion Warren!” she burst out hotly. “Three little children that you profess to love, your own nephews and niece, languishing in the crowded city air and needing the lovely country and a chance to play on the green grass, and you letting a mere sentimental notion for a little old house stand in the way of their life, perhaps!”

Jennie’s eyes flashed sparks of steel as gray eyes can do sometimes. Marion shrank from their glance, her very soul quivering with their misunderstanding of her.

“Oh, now Marion,” began Tom’s smooth tones, “that’s all nonsense about Father’s slaving to pay for this house. Sentimental nonsense,” he added, catching at his wife’s adjective. “He worked hard, of course. All men with a family do. I work hard myself. But you know perfectly well that Father wouldn’t have hung on to this particular house just because he had worked hard to pay for it if he had a good chance to better himself. It isn’t throwing it away to change it into something better, and this is a great opportunity. As for its being your home, why, you’ll have a home with us wherever we go; so you needn’t get up any such foolish ideas as that. The farm’ll be your home as much as this is in three months’ time.