“Edith’s baby is coming,” she said.

“Good Lord.  Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“No, no, it’s all right—­”

“But I thought the child wasn’t due for three weeks.”

“I know, and poor Edith is fearfully worried.  It has upset all her plans.  I’d go up and see her if I were you.  Your supper is ready; and if you like you can have it with the children.”

There followed a happy boisterous meal, with much expectant chatter about the long summer so soon to begin at the farm up in the mountains.  George, whose hair was down over his eyes, rumpled it back absorbedly as he told of a letter he had received from his friend Dave Royce, Roger’s farmer, with whom George corresponded.  One of the cows was to have a calf, and George was anxious to get there in time.

“I’ve never seen a real new calf, new absolutely,” he explained.  “And I want a look at this one the very minute that he’s born.  Gee, I hope we can get there in time—­”

“Gee!  So do I!” cried Bobby aged nine.  And then Tad, the chubby three-year-old who had been intently watching his brothers, slowly took the spoon from his mouth and in his grave sweet baby voice said very softly, “Gee.”  At her end of the table, Elizabeth, blonde and short and rather plump, frowned and colored slightly.  For she was eleven and she knew there was something dark and shameful about the way calves appear in barns.  And so, with a quick conscious cough, she sweetly interrupted: 

“Oh, Aunt Deborah!  Won’t you please tell us about—­about—­”

“About—­about,” jeered the ironical George.  “About what, you little ninny?” Poor Elizabeth blushed desperately.  She was neither quick nor resourceful.

“Now, George,” said his aunt warningly.

“Wasn’t I talking?” the boy rejoined.  “And didn’t Betsy butt right in—­without even a thing to butt in about?  About—­about,” he jeered again.

“About Paris!” cried his sister, successful at last in her frantic search for a proper topic of conversation.  “Aunt Deborah’s trip to Paris!”

“How many times has she told it already?” her brother replied with withering scorn.  “And anyhow, I was talking of cows!”

“Very well,” said his aunt, “we’ll talk about cows, some cows I saw on a lovely old farm in a little village over in France.”

“There!” cried his young sister.  “Did she ever tell of that part of her trip?” And she made a little face at her brother.

“I don’t care,” he answered doggedly.  “She has told about Paris lots of times—­and that was what you wanted.  Yes, you did.  You said, ’About Paris.’  Didn’t she, Bob?”

“You bet she did,” young Bob agreed.

“Now, children, children, what does it matter?”

“All right, go ahead with your barn in France,” said George with patient tolerance.  “Did they have any Holsteins?”

Soon the questions were popping from every side, while little Tad beamed from one to the other.  To Tad it was all so wonderful, to be having supper away from home, to be here, to go to bed upstairs, to take part perhaps in a pillow fight....  And glancing at the glowing face and the parted lips of his small grandson Roger felt a current of warm new life pour into his soul.