Mother came back in a few days more; Aunt Radford also was better.  The family fell into the old ways again, and it was as if no change had threatened.  Father told mother, however, something of importance that grandfather had said to him that afternoon, before he was taken ill.  He had been on the point of showing him something which he looked for among his papers, just before the wind whirled them out of his hands.  He had almost said he would complete and give it to him at once; and then, when they were interrupted, he had just put everything up again, and they had walked over home together.  Then there had been the excitement of the gale, and grandfather had insisted upon going to the barns himself to see that all was made properly fast, and had come back all out of breath, and had been taken with that ill turn in the midst of the storm.

The paper he was going to show to father was an unwitnessed deed of gift.  He had thought of securing to us this home, by giving it in trust to father for his wife and children.

“I helped John into his New York business,” he said, “by investing money in it that he has had the use of, at moderate interest, ever since; and Roderick and his wife have had their home with me.  None of my boys ever paid me any board.  I sha’n’t make a will; the law gives things where they belong; there’s nothing but this that wants evening; and so I’ve been thinking about it.  What you do with your share of my other property when you get it is no concern of mine as I know of; but I should like to give you something in such a shape that it couldn’t go for old debts.  I never undertook to shoulder any of them; what little I’ve done was done for you.  I wrote out the paper myself; I never go to lawyers.  I suppose it would stand clear enough for honest comprehension,—­and Roderick and John are both honest,—­if I left it as it is; but perhaps I’d as well take it some day to Squire Hadden, and swear to it, and then hand it over to you.  I’ll see about it.”

That was what grandfather had said; mother told us all about it; there were no secret committees in our domestic congress; all was done in open house; we knew all the hopes and the perplexities, only they came round to us in due order of hearing.  But father had not really seen the paper, after all; and after grandfather got well, he never mentioned it again all that winter.  The wonder was that he had mentioned it at all.

“He forgets a good many things, since his sickness,” father said, “unless something comes up to remind him.  But there is the paper; he must come across that.”

“He may change his mind,” said mother, “even when he does recollect.  We can be sure of nothing.”

But we grew more fond than ever of the old, sunshiny house.  In October Harry Goldthwaite went away again on a year’s cruise.

Rosamond had a letter from Mrs. Van Alstyne, from New York.  She folded it up after she had read it, and did not tell us anything about it.  She answered it next day; and it was a month later when one night up stairs she began something she had to say about our winter shopping with,—­