“Guess there wan’t many idees to give round to other folks after the Lord made her!” exclaimed Bill Harmon to his wife as they went through the lighted hall.

Gilbert, at the head of the procession, held Mother Hamilton’s picture, which had been taken from the old brick oven where “my son Tom” had hidden it.  Mother Carey’s bedroom, with its bouquets of field flowers on the wall paper, was gaily lighted and ready to receive the gift.  Nancy stood on a chair and hung the portrait over the fireplace, saying, “We place this picture here in memory of Agatha, mother of Lemuel Hamilton, owner of the Yellow House.  Underneath it we lay a posy of pressed daisies, buttercups, and Queen Anne’s lace, the wild flowers she loved best.”

Now Olive took away a green garland covering the words “Mater Cara,” that she had painted in brown letters just over the bricks of the fireplace.  The letters were in old English text, and a riot of buttercups and grasses twined their way amongst them.

“Mater Cara stands for ‘mother dear,’” said Nancy, “and thus this room will be full of memories of two dear mothers, an absent and a present one.”

Then Kathleen and Gilbert and Julia, Mother Carey and Peter bowed their heads and said in chorus:  “O Thou who dwellest in so many homes, possess thyself of this.  Thou who settest the solitary in families, bless the life that is sheltered here.  Grant that trust and peace and comfort may abide within, and that love and light and usefulness may go out from this house forever.  Amen.”

There was a moment’s silence and then all the party descended the stairs to the dining room.

“Ain’t they the greatest?” murmured Lallie Joy, turning to her father, but he had disappeared from the group.

The dining room was a blaze of glory, and great merriment ensued as they took their places at the table.  Mother Carey poured coffee, Nancy chocolate, and the others helped serve the sandwiches and cake, doughnuts and tarts.

“Where is Mr. Popham?” asked Nancy at the foot of the table.  “We cannot be happy without Mr. Popham.”

At that moment the gentleman entered, bearing a huge object concealed by a piece of green felt.  Approaching the dining table, he carefully placed the article in the centre and removed the cloth.

It was the Dirty Boy, carefully mended!

The guests naturally had no associations with the Carey Curse, and the Careys themselves were dumb with amazement and despair.

“I’ve seen this thing layin’ in the barn chamber in a thousand pieces all summer!” explained Mr. Popham radiantly.  “It wan’t none o’ my business if the family throwed it away thinkin’ it wan’t no more good.  Thinks I to myself, I never seen anything Osh Popham couldn’t mend if he took time enough and glue enough; so I carried this little feller home in a bushel basket one night last month, an’ I’ve spent eleven evenin’s puttin’ him together!  I don’t claim he’s good ’s new, ’cause he ain’t; but he’s consid’able better’n he was when I found him layin’ in the barn chamber!”