“Come and take your things off—­oh, you do look so well, dear.”

“Look at the nice view!”

“Don’t you think it looks like a real house, even if we did get it?”

“Oh, children dear! let me gather my poor scattered wits.”

So Mrs. Sturgis was lovingly pulled and pushed and steered into the dusky little living-room, where a few pieces of Westover Street furniture greeted her strangely, and where a most jolly fire burned on the hearth.  Felicia removed her mother’s hat; Ken put her into the big chair and spirited away her bag.  Mrs. Sturgis sat gazing about her—­at the white cheese-cloth curtains, the festive bunches of flowers in every available jug, the kitchen chairs painted a decorative blue, and at the three radiant faces of her children.

Kirk, who was plainly bursting with some plan, pulled his sister’s sleeve.

“Phil,” he whispered loudly, “do you think now would be a good time to do it!”

“What? Oh—­yes!  Yes, go ahead, to be sure,” said Felicia.

Kirk galloped forthwith to the melodeon, which Mrs. Sturgis had so far failed to identify as a musical instrument, seated himself before it, and opened it with a bang.  He drew forth all the loudest stops—­the trumpet, the diapason—­for his paean of welcome.

“It’s a triumphal march, in your honor,” Felicia whispered hastily to her mother.  “He spent half of yesterday working at it.”

Mrs. Sturgis, who had looked sufficiently bewildered became frankly incredulous.  But the room was now filled with the strains of Kirk’s music.  The Maestro would not, perhaps, have altogether approved of its bombastic nature—­but triumphant it certainly was, and sincere.  And what the music lacked was amply made up in Kirk’s face as he played—­an ineffable expression of mingled joy, devotion, and the solid satisfaction of a creator in his own handiwork.  He finished his performance with one long-drawn and really superb chord, and then came to his mother on flying feet.

“I meant it to be much, much nicer,” he explained, “like a real one that the Maestro played.  But I made it all for you, Mother, anyway—­and the other was for Napoleon or somebody.”

“Oh, you unbelievable old darling!” said Mrs. Sturgis.  “As if I wouldn’t rather have that than all the real ones!  But, Ken—­you didn’t tell me even that he could play do-re-mi-fa!”

“Well, Mother!” Ken protested, “I couldn’t tell you everything.”

And Mrs. Sturgis, striving to straighten her tangled wits, admitted the truth of this remark.

After supper, which was a real feast, including bona fide mutton-chops and a layer cake, the Sturgis family gathered about the fireside.

“This is home to you,” Mrs. Sturgis said.  “How strange it seems!  But you’ve made it home—­I can see that.  How did you, you surprising people?  And such cookery and all; I don’t know you!”