But his memory, older and longer than Minna’s, served him.

“Daddy!” said George, shy and very nervous.

Osborn wondered why this boy was nervous of him.  Forgetting his previous sharpness and irritation with the children, he now suddenly wanted George’s confidence.

“Daddy’s back!” he said, “with lots of stories to tell you about great big ships and trains and wonderful birds which you never saw.”

“How splendid!” said the boy, still very shy.  He had a guilty feeling about his boisterous entry.

“I was afraid you would be cross with me for making a noise when I came in,” he explained.

“Like you used to be,” Minna added.

“I’m not cross, old son,” Osborn said slowly.

“We’re going to have tea now, Daddy,” Minna continued, as the maid entered with a cloth and a tray.

Osborn stayed talking to the children while the tea things were set upon the table.  He supposed that they would all have tea together in the way which he had once so heartily deplored, and which at this moment seemed so dear and homely, until he saw the maid standing respectfully behind her chair waiting for his departure.

He spoke genially, but ill at ease.

“You give them their tea, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, “and I have taken tea into the sitting-room.”

The baby was now sitting in a high chair, bland and fat and greedy, a bib about her neck.  George and Minna, after a propitiatory smile at him, had climbed into their places.

“You don’t mind if we begin, Daddy, do you?” George asked.

“Go on, old son,” said Osborn hastily.

There was no more use there for the father who had been cross, so he returned to his wife.

She was still sitting in the corner of the chesterfield, but she had picked up some knitting, with which her hands were busy.  As he entered she looked up and gave him a contemplative regard such as he had given her as he went out, only that it was colder, more detached.  She saw him big and splendid, handsome and virile, and the eagerness in his eyes fell into her heart like a cold weight.  Her hands became cold and trembled.

She did not want him.

Beside her the tea table was drawn up.  Its equipment seemed to him very dainty.  It was a picture he liked, this pretty woman by the fire, with the environment suited to her charms.

Through the wall came faintly the jolly sound of their children’s voices.

He hurried forward, sat down close to her, and laid a hand over hers which held the knitting.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“George’s winter stockings; they’re to have turn-down tops like grown-up ones.”

He took the knitting and pretended to examine the pattern, though he was not thinking of anything save her.

The year’s parting had been a miracle.  Love had slyly redecorated his house throughout.