“I expect I know how to make myself useful without being conspicuous, and I’m sure I think enough of both of you not to put my foot into your housekeeping.  That child’s worked pretty hard these four years since I’ve known her, and a little vacation won’t hurt her.”

So it had been settled, and Mrs. Fields was now getting up a dinner for her “folks,” as she affectionately termed them, which was to be little short of a feast.

Charlotte had written that she and Andy wanted the whole family to come to dinner with them that first night.  All day Celia and her mother had been busy getting the little house, already in perfect order, into that state of decorative cheer which suggests a welcome in itself.  Now, with Just’s offering of ground-pine, and Celia’s scarlet carnations all about the room, a fire ready laid in the fireplace, and lamps and candles waiting to be lighted on every side, there seemed nothing to be desired.

“I suppose there’s really not another thing we can do,” said Celia.

“Absolutely nothing more, that I can see,” agreed Mrs. Birch, taking up her wraps from the chair on which they lay.  “You can run over and light up at the last minute.  Really, how long it seems yet to seven o’clock!”

“Doesn’t it?  And how good it will be to get the dear girl back!  Well, the first month has gone by, mother dear.  The worst is over.”

Celia spoke cheerfully, but her words were not quite steady.  Mrs. Birch glanced at her.

“You’ve been a brave daughter,” she said, with the quiet composure which Celia understood did not always cover a peaceful heart.  “We shall all grow used to the change in time.  I think sometimes we’re not half thankful enough to have Charlotte so near.”

“Oh, I think we are!” Celia protested.

“The children have had a beautiful month.  Haven’t their letters been—­What’s that?”

It was nothing more startling than the front door-bell, but this was so seldom rung at the bachelor doctor’s house, where everybody who wanted him at all wanted him professionally at the office, that it sent Celia hastily and anxiously to the door.  It was so impossible at this hour, when the travellers were almost home, not to dread the happening of something to detain them.  At the same moment Mrs. Field put her head in at the dining-room door.  “Land, I do hope it ain’t a telegram!” she observed, in a loud whisper.

It was not a telegram.  It was a pale-faced little woman in black, with two children, a boy and a girl, beside her.  Celia looked at them questioningly.

“This is Doctor Churchill’s, isn’t it?” asked the stranger, with a hesitating foot upon the threshold.  “Is he at home?”

“He is expected home—­he will be in his office to-morrow,” Celia answered, thinking this a new patient, and feeling justified in keeping Doctor Churchill’s first evening clear for him if she could.  But the visitor drew a sigh of relief, and came over the threshold, drawing her children with her.  Celia gave way, but the question in her face brought the explanation: